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DIVERGING  ROADS 


DIVERGING  ROADS 


BY 


ROSE  WILDER  LANE 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1919 


^%'i 

^r 


^(^pyrighfc,  1919,  hy 
The  Cf.ntuey  Co. 


Published,  March,  1919 


PROLOGUE 

The  tale  of  California's  early  days  is  an  epic, 
an  immortal  song  of  daring,  of  hope,  of  the  urge 
of  youth  to  unknown  trails,  of  struggle,  and  of 
heartbreak.  Across  the  great  American  plains 
the  adventurers  came,  scrawling  the  story  of  their 
passing  in  lines  of  blood;  they  came  around  the 
Horn  in  wind-jammers,  beating  their  way  north- 
ward in  the  strange  Pacific;  they  forced  their  way 
into  the  wilderness,  awakening  California's  hills 
from  centuries-long  sleep,  and^they  pitched  their 
tents  and  built  their  cabins  by  thousands  in  Chero- 
kee Valley. 

Those  were  the  great  days  of  Cherokee,  days  of 
feverish  activity,  of  hard,  fierce  living,  of  mar- 
velous event.  The  tales  came  down  to  Masonville, 
where  the  stage  stopped  to  change  horses,  and 
drivers,  express-messengers,  and  prospectors  gath- 
ered in  Mason's  bar.  The  Chinese  laundryman 
had  found  beside  his  cabin  a  nugget  worth  sixteen 
hundred  dollars;  the  stage  to  Honey  Creek  had 
been  held  up  just  north  of  Cherokee  Hill;  Jim 
Thane  had  struck  it  rich  on  North  Branch. 

Mason,  prospering,  ordered  a  billiard-table  sent 

Ml054:40 


PROLOGUE 

up  from  San  Francisco,  built  a  dance-hall.  Rich- 
ardson came  in  with  his  family  and  put  up  a  gen- 
eral store.  Cherokee  was  booming ;  Cherokee  min- 
ers came  down  with  their  sacks  of  gold-dust,  and 
Masonville   thrived. 

But  the  great  days  passed.  The  time  came  when 
placer  mining  no  longer  paid  in  Cherokee,  and  the 
camp  moved  on  across  the  mountains.  Cherokee 
Valley  was  left  behind,  a  desolate  little  hollow 
among  the  hills,  denuded  of  its  trees,  disfigured 
here  and  there  by  the  scars  of  shallow  tunnels 
where  hope  still  fought  against  defeat.  A  hand- 
ful of  dogged  miners  remained,  and  a  few  Portu- 
guese families  living  in  little  cabins,  harvesting  a 
bare  subsistence  from  the  unwilling  soil. 

A  few  discouraged  men  came  down  to  Mason- 
ville and  took  up  homestead  claims,  clearing  the 
chaparral  from  their  rolling  acres,  sowing  grain 
or  setting  out  fruit-trees.  They  had  wives  and 
children;  in  time  they  built  a  school-house.  Later 
the  railroad  came  through,  and  there  was  a  station 
and  a  small  bank. 

But  the  stirring  times  of  enterprise  and  daring 
were  gone  forever.  The  epic  had  ended  in  bad 
verse.  Masonville  slipped  quietly  to  sleep,  like  an 
old  man  sitting  in  the  sun  with  his  memories. 
And  youth,  taking  up  its  old  immortal  song  of 
courage  and  of  hope,  went  on  to  farther  unknown 
trails  and  different  adventure. 


DIVERGING  ROADS 


DIVERGING  ROADS 


CHAPTER!  ..■•  ;    :    .  {;;•;,•  ; 

THERE  is  a  peculiar  quality  in  the  somnolence 
of  an  old  town  in  which  little  has  occurred 
for  many  years.  It  is  the  unease  of  relaxation 
without  repose,  the  unease  of  one  who  lies  too  late 
in  bed,  aware  that  he  should  be  getting  up.  The 
men  who  lounge  aimlessly  about  the  street  corners 
cannot  be  wholly  idle.  Their  hands,  at  least,  must 
be  busy.  The  scarred  posts  and  notched  edges  of 
the  board  sidewalks  show  it;  the  paint  on  the  little 
stations  is  sanded  shoulder-high  to  prevent  their 
whittling  there.  Energy  struggles  feebly  under 
the  weight  of  the  slow,  uneventful  days;  but  its 
pressure  is  always  there,  an  urge  that  becomes  an 
irritation  in   young  blood. 

Helen  Davies,  pausing  in  the  doorway  of  Rich- 
ardson's store  on  a  warm  spring  afternoon,  said 
to  herself  that  she  would  be  glad  never  to  see 
Masonville  again.  The  familiar  sight  of  its  one 
drowsy  street,  the  rickety  wooden  awnings  over  the 
sidewalks,    the    boys    pitching   horseshoes    in    the 

3 


4  DIVERGING  ROADS 

shade  of  the  blacksmith  shop,  was  almost  insup- 
portable. 

She  did  not  want  to  stand  there  looking  at  it. 
She  did  not  want  to  follow  the  old  stale  road 
home  to  the  old  farm-house,  which  had  not  changed 
since''  6he  cOu^d  remember.  She  felt  that  she 
should  be '  doing  something,  she  did  not  know  what. 
V,^'.  Jorig;  purple  curl  of  smoke  unrolling  over  the 
crest  of  Cherokee  Hill  was  the  plume  of  Number 
Five  coming  in.  Two  short,  quick  puffs  of  white 
above  the  bronze  mist  of  bare  apricot  orchards 
mutely  announced  the  whistle  for  the  grade. 

Men  sauntered  past,  going  toward  the  station. 
The  postmaster  appeared  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  push- 
ing a  wheelbarrow  filled  with  mail  sacks  down  the 
middle  of  the  street.  The  afternoon  hack  from 
Cherokee  rattled  by,  bringing  a  couple  of  tired, 
dust-grimed  drummers.  And  the  Masonville  girls, 
bare-headed,  laughing,  talking  in  high,  gay  voices, 
came  hurrying  from  the  post-office,  from  the  drug- 
store, from  one  of  their  Embroidery  Club  meet- 
ings, to  see  Number  Five  come  in.  Helen  shifted 
the  weight  of  the  package  on  her  arm,  pulled  her 
sunbonnet  farther  over  her  face,  and  started  home. 

Depression  and  revolt  struggled  in  her  mind. 
She  passed  the  wide,  empty  doorway  of  Harner^s 
livery  stable,  the  glowing  forge  of  the  blacksmith- 
shop,  without  seeing  them,  absorbed  in  the  turmoil 
of  her  thoughts.     But  at  the  corner  where  the 


DIVERGING  ROADS  5 

gravel  walk  began,  and  the  street  frankly  became  a 
country  road  slipping  down  a  little  slope  between 
scattered  white  cottages,  her  self -absorption  van- 
ished. 

A  boy  was  walking  slowly  down  the  path.  The 
elaborate  unconcern  of  his  attitude,  the  stiffness  of 
his  self-conscious  back,  told  her  that  he  had  been 
waiting  for  her,  and  a  rush  of  dizzying  emotion 
swept  away  all  but  the  immediate  moment.  The 
sunshine  was  warm  on  her  shoulders,  the  grass  of 
the  lawns  was  green,  every  lace-curtained  window 
behind  the  rose-bushes  seemed  to  conceal  watching 
eyes,  and  the  sound  of  her  feet  on  the  gravel 
was  loud  in  her  ears.  She  overtook  him  at  last, 
trying  not  to  walk  too  fast.  They  smiled  at  each 
other. 

"  Hello,  Paul,"  she  said  shyly. 

He  was  a  stocky,  dark-haired  boy,  with  blue 
eyes.  His  father  was  dead,  killed  in  a  mine  over 
at  Cherokee.  He  had  come  down  to  the  Mason- 
ville  school,  and  they  were  in  the  same  class,  the 
class  that  would  graduate  that  spring.  He  was 
studying  hard,  trying  to  get  as  much  education  as 
possible  before  he  would  have  to  go  to  work.  He 
lived  with  his  mother  in  a  little  house  near  the  edge 
of  town,  on  the  road  to  the  farm. 

"  Hello,"  he  replied.  He  cleared  his  throat. 
"  I  had  to  go  to  the  post-office  to  mail  a  letter,"  he 
said. 


6  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"Did  you?"  she  answered.  She  tried  to  think 
of  something  else  to  say.  "  Will  you  be  glad  when 
school's  over?"  she  asked. 

Paul  and  she  stood  at  the  head  of  the  class.  He 
was  better  in  arithmetic,  but  she  beat  him  in  spell- 
ing. For  a  long  time  they  had  exchanged  glances 
of  mutual  respect  across  the  school-room.  Some 
one  had  told  her  that  Paul  said  she  was  all  right. 
He  had  beat  her  in  arithmetic  that  day.  "  She 
takes  a  licking  as  well  as  a  boy,"  was  what  he  had 
said.  But  she  had  gone  home  and  looked  in  the 
mirror. 

The  flutter  at  her  heart  had  stopped  then.  No, 
she  was  not  pretty.  Her  features  were  too  large, 
her  forehead  too  high.  She  despised  the  face  that 
looked  back  at  her.  She  longed  for  tiny,  pretty 
features,  large  brown  eyes,  a  low  forehead  with 
curling  hair.  The  eyes  in  the  mirror  were  gray 
and  the  hair  was  straight  and  brown.  Not  even  a 
pretty,  light  brown.  It  was  almost  black.  For  the 
first  time  she  had  desperately  wanted  to  be  pretty. 
But  now  she  did  not  care.  He  had  waited  for 
her,  anyway. 

They  walked  slowly  along  the  country  road,  un- 
der the  arch  of  the  trees,  through  the  branches  of 
which  the  sun  sent  long,  slanting  rays  of  light. 
There  was  a  colored  haze  over  the  leafless  or- 
chards, and  the  hills  were  freshly  green  from  the 
rains. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  7 

"  Well,  I  \e  got  a  job  promised  as  soon  as  school 
is  over/'  said  Paul. 

"  What  kind  of  job?  "  she  asked. 

"  Working  at  the  depot.  It  pays  fifteen  a 
month  to  start,"  he  replied.  It  was  as  if  they 
were  uttering  poetry.  The  words  did  not  matter. 
What  they  said  did  not  matter. 

"  That 's  fine,"  she  said.     "  I  wish  I  had  a  job." 

"  Gee,  I  hate  to  see  a  girl  go  to  work,"  said  Paul. 

His  lips  were  full  and  very  firm.  When  he  set 
them  tightly,  as  he  did  then,  he  looked  determined. 
There  was  something  obstinate  about  the  line  of 
his  chin  and  the  slight  frown  between  his  heavy 
black  brows.  Her  whole  nature  seemed  to  melt 
and  flow  toward  him. 

"I  don't  see  why!"  she  flashed.  "A  girl  like 
me  has  to  work  if  she  's  going  to  get  anywhere. 
I  bet  I  could  do  as  well  as  a  boy  if  I  had  a  chance." 

The  words  were  like  a  defensive  armor  between 
her  and  her  real  desire.  She  did  not  want  to 
work.  She  wanted  to  be  soft  and  pretty,  tempting 
and  teasing  and  sweet.  She  wanted  to  win  the 
things  she  desired  by  tears  and  smiles  and  coaxing. 
But  she  did  not  know  how. 

Paul  looked  at  her  admiringly.  He  said,  "  I  guess 
you  could,  all  right.  You  're  pretty  smart  for  a 
girl." 

She  glowed  with  pleasure. 

They  had  often  walked  along  this  road  as  far 


8j  DIVERGING  ROADS 

as  his  house,  when  accident  brought  them  home 
from  school  at  the  same  time.  But  their  talk  had 
never  had  this  indefinable  quality,  as  vague  and 
beautiful  as  the  misty  color  over  the  orchards. 

Sometimes  she  had  stopped  at  his  house  for  a 
few  minutes.  His  mother  was  a  little  woman 
with  brisk,  bustling  manner.  She  always  stood  at 
the  door  to  see  that  they  wiped  their  feet  before 
they  went  in.  The  house  was  very  neat.  There 
was  an  ingrain  carpet  on  the  front-room  floor, 
swept  till  every  thread  showed.  The  center-table 
had  a  crocheted  tidy  on  it  and  a  Bible  and  a  polished 
sea-shell.  This  room  rose  like  a  picture  in  her 
mind  as  they  neared  the  gate.  She  did  not  want 
to  leave  Paul,  but  she  did  not  want  to  go  into  that 
room  with  him  now. 

*'  Look  here  —  wait  a  minute  — "  he  said,  stop- 
ping in  the  gateway.  "  I  wanted  to  tell  you  — " 
He  turned  red  and  looked  down  at  one  toe,  boring 
into  the  soft  ground.  "  About  this  being  valedic- 
torian — " 

"  Oh ! ''  she  said.  There  had  been  a  fierce  ri- 
valry between  them  for  the  honor  of  being  valedic- 
torian at  the  graduating  exercises.  There  was 
nothing  to  choose  between  them  in  scholarship,  but 
Paul  had  won.  She  knew  the  teachers  had  decided 
she  did  not  dress  well  enough  to  take  such  a  promi- 
nent part. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  feel  bad  about  it,  Helen/'  he 


DIVERGING  ROADS  9 

went  on  awkwardly.  "  I  told  them  I  'd  give  it  up, 
because  you  're  a  girl,  and  anyway  you  ought  to 
have  it,  I  guess.  I  don't  feel  right  about  taking  it, 
some  way." 

"That's  all  right,"  she  answered.  "I  don't 
care." 

"  Well,  it 's  awfully  good  of  you."  She  could 
see  that  he  was  very  much  relieved.  She  was  glad 
she  had  lied  about  it.  "  Come  in  and  look  at  what 
I  've  got  in  the  shed,"  he  said,  getting  away  from 
the  subject  as  quickly  as  possible. 

She  followed  him  around  the  house,  under  the 
old  palm-tree  that  stood  there.  He  had  cleared 
out  the  woodshed  and  put  in  a  table  and  a  chair. 
On  the  table  stood  a  telegraphic-sounder  and  key 
and  a  round,  red,  dry  battery. 

"  I  'm  going  to  learn  to  be  an  operator,"  he  said. 
"  I  've  got  most  of  the  alphabet  already.  Listen." 
He  made  the  instrument  click.  "  I  'm  going  to 
practise  receiving,  listening  to  the  wires  in  the  de- 
pot. Morrison  says  I  can  after  I  get  through 
work.  Telegraph-operators  make  as  much  as  sev- 
enty dollars  a  month,  and  some  of  them,  on  the 
fast  wires,  make  a  hundred.  I  guess  the  train- 
dispatcher  makes  more  than  that." 

"Oh,  Paul,  really?"  She  was  all  enthusiasm. 
He  let  her  try  the  key.  "  I  could  do  it.  I  know 
I  could,"  she  said. 

He  was  encouraging. 


lo  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  Sure  you  could."  But  there  was  a  faint  con- 
descension in  his  tone,  and  she  felt  that  he  was  en- 
tering a  life  into  which  she  could  not  follow  him. 

"  That 's  the  trouble  with  this  rotten  old  world," 
she  said  resentfully.  "  You  can  get  out  and  do 
things  like  that.     A  girl  has  n't  any  chance  at  all." 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  has,"  he  answered.  "  There  *s 
lots  of  girl  operators.  There  's  one  down  the  line. 
Her  father 's  station  agent.  And  up  at  Rollo 
there's  a  man  and  his  wife  that  handle  the  station 
between  them.  He  works  nights,  and  she  works 
daytimes.  They  live  over  the  depot,  and  if  any- 
thing goes  wrong  she  can  call  him." 

"  That  must  be  nice,"  she  said. 

"  He 's  pretty  lucky,  all  right,"  Paul  agreed. 
"  It  is  n't  exactly  like  having  her  working,  of 
course  —  right  together  like  that.  I  guess  maybe 
they  could  n't  —  been  married,  unless  she  did. 
He  did  n't  have  much,  I  guess.  He  is  n't  so  awful 
much  older  than  —  But  anyway,  I  'd  hate  to  see  — 
anybody  I  cared  about  going  to  work,"  he  finished 
desperately.  He  opened  and  shut  the  telegraph- 
key,  and  the  metallic  clacks  of  the  sounder  were 
loud  in  the  stillness.  Unsaid  things  hung  between 
them.  Dazzled,  tremulous,  shaken  by  the  beating 
of  her  heart,  Helen  could  not  speak. 

The  palpitant  moment  was  ended  by  the  sound 
of  his  mother's  voice.  "  Paul !  Paul,  I  want 
some  wood."     They  laughed  shakily. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  ii 

"I  —  I  guess  I  better  be  going,"  she  said.  He 
made  no  protest.  But  when  they  stood  in  the 
woodshed  doorway  he  said  all  in  a  rush: 

*'  Look  here,  if  I  get  a  buggy  next  Sunday, 
what  do  you  say  we  go  driving  somewhere?  " 

She  carried  those  words  home  with  her,  singing 
as  she  went. 


CHAPTER  II 

HE  came  early  that  Sunday  afternoon,  but  she 
had  been  ready,  waiting,  long  before  she  saw 
the  buggy  coming  down  the  road. 

She  had  tried  to  do  her  hair  in  a  new  way,  put- 
ting it  up  in  rag  curlers  the  night  before,  working 
with  it  for  hours  that  morning  in  the  stuffy  attic 
bedroom  before  the  wavy  mirror,  combing  it,  put- 
ting it  up,  taking  it  down  again,  with  a  nervous 
fluttering  in  her  wrists.  In  the  end  she  gave  it 
up.  She  rolled  the  long  braid  into  its  usual  mass 
at  the  nape  of  her  neck,  and  pinned  on  it  a  black 
ribbon  bow. 

She  longed  for  a  new  white  dress  to  wear  that 
day.  Her  pink  gingham,  whose  blue-and-white- 
plaid  pattern  had  faded  to  blurred  lines  of  mauve 
and  pale  pink,  was  hideous  to  her  as  she  con- 
templated it  stretched  in  all  its  freshly  ironed  stiff- 
ness on  the  bed.  But  it  was  the  best  she  could 
do. 

While  she  dressed,  the  sounds  of  the  warm,  lazy, 
spring  morning  floated  in  to  her  through  the  half- 
open  window.  The  whinnying  of  the  long-legged 
colt  in  the  barnyard,  the  troubled,  answering  neigh 

12 


DIVERGING  ROADS  13 

of  his  mother  from  the  pasture,  the  cackUng  of  the 
hens,  blended  Hke  the  notes  of  a  pastoral  orchestra 
with  the  rising  and  falling  whirr  of  steel  on  the 
grindstone.  Under  the  stunted  live-oak  in  the 
side-yard  her  father  was  sharpening  an  ax,  while 
her  little  sister  Mabel  turned  the  crank  and  poured 
water  on  the  whirling  stone.  The  murmur  of  their 
talk  came  up  to  her,  Mabel's  shrill,  continuous  chat- 
ter, her  father's  occasional  monosyllables.  She 
heard  without  listening,  and  the  sounds  ran  like  an 
undercurrent  of  contentment  in  her  thoughts. 

When  she  had  pinned  her  collar  and  put  on  her 
straw  sailor  she  stood  for  a  long  time  gazing  into 
the  eyes  that  looked  back  at  her  from  the  mirror, 
lost  in  a  formless  reverie. 

*'  My  land !  '*  her  mother  said  when  she  appeared 
in  the  kitchen.  "  What  're  you  all  dressed  up  like 
that  for,  this  time  of  day?" 

"  I  'm  going  driving,"  she  answered,  con- 
strained. She  had  dreaded  the  moment.  Her 
mother  stopped,  the  oven  door  half  open,  a  fork 
poised  in  her  hand. 

"Who  with?" 

"  Paul."  She  tried  to  say  the  name  casually, 
making  an  effort  to  meet  her  mother's  eyes  as 
usual.  It  was  as  if  they  looked  at  each  other  across 
a  wide  empty  space.  Her  mother  seemed  suddenly 
to  see  in  her  a  stranger. 

"  But  —  good  gracious,  Helen !     You  're  only  a 


14  DIVERGING  ROADS 

little  girl!"  The  words  were  cut  across  by 
Tommy's  derisive  chant  from  the  table,  where  he 
sat  licking  a  mixing-spoon. 

"Helen's  got  a  feller!     Helen's  got  a  feller!" 

"Shut  up!"  she  cried.  "If  you  don't  shut 
up  —  !" 

But  he  got  away  from  her  and,  slamming  the 
screen  door,  yelled  from  the  safe  distance  of  the 
woodpile : 

"  Helen  's  mad,  and  I  'm  glad,  an'  I  know  what 
will  please  her  — !  " 

She  went  into  the  other  room,  shutting  the  door 
with  a  shaking  hand.  She  felt  that  she  hated  the 
whole  world.  Yes,  even  Paul.  Her  mother  called 
to  her  that  even  if  she  was  going  out  with  a  beau, 
that  was  no  reason  she  should  n't  eat  something. 
Dinner  would  n't  be  ready  till  two  o'clock,  but  she 
ought  to  drink  some  milk  anyway.  She  answered 
that  she  was  not  hungry. 

Paul  would  come  by  one  o'clock,  she  thought. 
His  mother  had  only  a  cold  lunch  on  Sundays,  be- 
cause they  went  to  church.  He  came  ten  minutes 
late,  and  she  had  forgotten  everything  else  in  the 
strain  of  waiting. 

She  met  him  at  the  gate,  and  he  got  out  to  help 
her  into  the  buggy-seat.  He  was  wearing  his  Sun- 
day clothes,  the  blue  suit,  carefully  brushed  and 
pressed,  and  a  stiff  white  collar.  He  looked 
strange  and  formal. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  15 

"  It  is  n't  much  of  a  rig,"  he  said  apologetically, 
clearing  his  throat.  She  recognized  the  bony  sor- 
rel and  the  rattling  buggy,  the  cheapest  in  Harner's 
livery  stable.  But  even  that,  she  knew,  was  an 
extravagance  for  Paul. 

"  It 's  hard  to  get  a  rig  on  Sunday,"  she  said. 
"  Everybody  takes  them  all  out  in  the  morning.  I 
think  you  were  awfully  lucky  to  get  such  a  good 
one.     Is  n't  it  a  lovely  day  ?  " 

"  It  looks  like  the  rains  are  about  over,"  he  re- 
plied in  a  polite  voice.  After  the  first  radiant 
glance  they  had  not  looked  at  each  other.  He 
chirped  to  the  sorrel,  and  they  drove  away  to- 
gether. 

Enveloped  in  the  hood  of  the  buggy- top,  they 
saw  before  them  the  yellow  road,  winding  on 
among  the  trees,  disappearing,  appearing  again 
like  a  ribbon  looped  about  the  curves  of  the  hills. 
There  was  gold  in  the  green  of  the  fields,  gold  in 
the  poppies  beside  the  road,  gold  in  the  ruddiness 
of  young  apricot  twigs.  The  clear  air  itself  was 
filled  with  vibrant,  golden  sunshine.  They  drove 
in  a  golden  haze.  What  did  they  say?  It  did 
not  matter.     They  looked  at  each  other. 

His  arm  lay  along  the  back  of  the  buggy  seat. 
Its  being  there  was  like  a  secret  shared  between 
them,  a  knowledge  held  in  common,  to  be  cherished 
and  to  be  kept  unspoken.  When  the  increasing 
consciousness  of  it  grew  too  poignant  to  be  borne 


i6  DIVERGING  ROADS 

any  longer  in  silence  they  escaped  from  it  in  sudden 
mutual  panic,  breathless.  They  left  the  buggy, 
tying  the  patient  sorrel  in  the  shade  beneath  a  tree, 
and  clambered  up  the  hillside. 

They  went,  they  said,  to  gather  wild  flowers. 
He  took  her  hand  to  help  her  up  the  trail,  and  she 
permitted  it,  stumbling,  when  unaided  she  could 
have  climbed  more  easily,  glad  to  feel  that  he  was 
the  leader,  eager  that  he  should  think  himself  the 
stronger.  At  the  top  of  the  hill  they  came  to  a  low- 
spreading  live-oak  with  a  patch  of  young  grass 
beneath  it,  and  here,  forgetting  the  ungathered 
flowers,  they  sat  down. 

They  sat  there  a  long  time,  talking  very  seriously 
on  grave  subjects;  life  and  the  meaning  of  it,  the 
bigness  of  the  universe,  and  how  it  makes  a  fellow 
feel  funny,  somehow,  when  he  looks  at  the  stars  at 
night  and  thinks  about  things.  She  understood. 
She  felt  that  way  herself  sometimes.  It  was  amaz- 
ing to  learn  how  many  things  they  had  felt  in  com- 
mon. Neither  of  them  had  ever  expected  to  find 
any  one  else  who  felt  them,  too. 

Then  there  was  the  question  of  what  to  do  with 
your  life.  It  was  a  pretty  important  thing  to  decide. 
You  did  n't  want  to  make  mistakes,  like  so  many 
men  did.  You  had  to  start  right.  That  was  the 
point,  the  start.  When  you  get  to  be  eighteen  or 
so,  almost  twenty,  you  realize  that,  and  you  look 
back  over  your  life  and  see  how  you  've  wasted  a  lot 


DIVERGING  ROADS  17 

of  time  already.  You  realize  you  better  begin  to 
do  something. 

Now  here  was  the  idea  of  learning  telegraphy. 
That  looked  pretty  good.  If  a  fellow  really  went 
at  that  and  worked  hard,  there  was  no  telling  what 
it  might  lead  to.  You  might  get  to  be  a  train- 
dispatcher  or  even  a  railroad  superintendent.  There 
were  lots  of  big  men  who  did  n't  have  any  better 
start  than  he  had.     Look  at  Edison. 

She  agreed.  She  was  sure  there  was  nothing  he 
could  not  do.  Somehow,  then,  they  began  to  talk  as 
if  she  would  be  with  him.  She  might  be  a  teleg- 
rapher, too.  Wouldn't  it  be  fun  if  she  was,  so 
they  could  be  in  the  same  town  ?  He  'd  help  her 
with  the  train  orders,  and  if  he  worked  nights  she 
could  fix  his  lunch  for  him. 

They  made  a  sort  of  play  of  it,  laughing  about  it. 
They  were  only  supposing,  of  course.  They  care- 
fully refrained  from  voicing  the  thought  that  clam- 
ored behind  everything  they  said,  that  set  her  heart 
racing  and  kept  her  eyes  from  meeting  his,  the 
thought  of  that  young  couple  at  Rollo. 

And  at  the  last,  when  they  could  no  longer  ignore 
the  incredible  fact  that  the  afternoon  was  gone,  that 
only  a  golden  western  sky  behind  the  flat,  blue  mass 
of  the  hills  remained  to  tell  of  the  vanished  sun- 
light, they  rose  reluctantly,  hesitant.  He  had  taken 
her  two  hands  to  help  her  to  her  feet.  In  the  gray- 
ness  of  the  twilight  they  looked  at  each  other,  and 


i8  DIVERGING  ROADS 

she  felt  the  approach  of  a  moment  tremendous,  ir- 
revocable. 

He  was  drawing  her  closer.  She  felt,  with  the 
pull  of  his  hands,  an  urging  within  herself,  a  com- 
pulsion like  a  strong  current,  sweeping  her  awLy, 
merging  her  with  something  unknown,  vast,  beauti- 
fully terrible.  Suddenly,  in  a  panic,  pushing  him 
blindly  away,  she  heard  herself  saying,  "  No  —  no ! 
Please  — "     The  tension  of  his  arms  relaxed. 

"All  right  —  if  you  don't  want— I  didn't 
mean — "  he  stammered.  Their  hands  clung  for  a 
moment,  uncertainly,  then  dropped  apart.  They 
stumbled  down  the  dusky  trail  and  drove  home  al- 
most in  silence. 

Spring  came  capriciously  that  next  year.  She 
smiled  unexpectedly  upon  the  hills  through  long  days 
of  golden  sunshine,  coaxing  wild  flowers  from  the 
damp  earth  and  swelling  buds  with  her  warm  prom- 
ise. She  retreated  again  behind  cold  skies,  aban- 
doning eager  petals  and  sap-filled  twigs  to  the  chill 
desolation  of  rain  and  the  bitterness  of  frost. 

Farmers  trudging  behind  their  plows  felt  her  com- 
ing in  the  stir  of  the  scented  air,  in  the  responsive- 
ness of  the  springy  soil  and,  looking  up  at  the  spark- 
ling skies,  felt  a  warmth  in  their  own  veins  even 
while  they  shook  their  heads  doubtfully.  And  ris- 
ing in  the  dawns  they  tramped  the  orchard  rows, 
bending  tips  of  branches  between  anxious  fingers, 


DIVERGING  ROADS  19 

pausing  to  cut  open  a  few  buds  on  their  calloused 
palms. 

But  to  Helen  the  days  were  like  notes  in  a  melody. 
Linnet^s  songs  and  sunshine  streaming  through  the 
attic  windows  or  gray  panes  and  rain  on  the  roof 
were  one  to  her.  She  woke  to  either  as  to  a  holi- 
day. She  slipped  from  beneath  the  patchwork  quilt 
into  a  coldh-oom  and  dressed  with  shivering  fingers, 
hardly  hearing  Mabel's  drowsy  protests  at  being 
waked  so  early.  Life  was  too  good  to  be  wasted  in 
sleep.  She  seemed  made  of  energy  as  she  ran  down 
the  steep  stairs  to  the  kitchen.  It  swelled  in  her 
veins  as  a  river  frets  against  its  banks  in  the  spring 
floods. 

Every  sight  and  sound  struck  upon  her  senses  with 
a  new  freshness.  There  was  exhilaration  in  the  bite 
of  cold  water  on  her  skin  when  she  washed  in  the 
tin  basin  on  the  bench  by  the  door,  and  the  smell 
of  coffee  and  frying  salt  pork  was  good.  She  sang 
while  she  spread  the  red  table-cloth  on  the  kitchen 
table  and  set  out  the  cracked  plates. 

She  sang : 

"  You  're  as  welcome  as  the  flowers  in  Ma-a-ay, 
And  I  —  love  you  in  the  same  0-0-old  way." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  caroling  aloud 
poetry  so  exquisite  that  all  its  meaning  escaped  the 
dull  ears  about  her.  She  walked  among  them,  alone, 
wrapped  in  a  glory  they  could  not  perceive. 


20  DIVERGING  ROADS 

Even  her  mother's  tight-Hpped  anxiety  did  not 
quite  break  through  her  happy  absorption.  Her 
mother  worked  silently,  stepping  heavily  about  the 
kitchen,  now  and  then  glancing  through  the  window 
toward  the  barn.  When  her  husband  came  clump- 
ing up  the  path  and  stopped  at  the  back  steps  to 
scrape  the  mud  from  his  boots,  she  went  to  the  door 
and  opened  it,  saying  almost  harshly,  '*  Well?" 

He  said  nothing,  continuing  for  a  moment  to 
•knock  a  boot  heel  against  the  edge  of  the  step. 
Then  he  came  slowly  in,  and  began  to  dip  water  from 
the  water  pail  into  the  wash-basin.  The  slump  of 
his  body  in  the  sweat-stained  overalls  expressed 
nothing  but  weariness. 

"  I  guess  last  night  settled  it,"  he  said.  "  We 
won't  get  enough  of  a  crop  to  pay  to  pick  it.  Outa 
twenty  buds  I  cut  on  the  south  slope  only  four  of 
'em  was  n't  black." 

His  wife  went  back  to  the  stove  and  turned  the 
salt  pork,  holding  her  head  back  from  the  spatters. 
"  What  're  we  going  to  do  about  the  mortgage  ?  " 
The  question  filled  a  long  silence.  Helen's  song  was 
hushed,  though  the  echoes  of  it  still  went  on  in  some 
secret  place  within  her,  safe  there  even  from  this 
calamity. 

"  Same  as  we  've  always  done,  I  guess,"  her  father 
answered  at  last,  lifting  a  dripping  face  and  reach- 
ing for  the  roller  towel.  "  See  if  I  can  get  young 
Mason  to  renew  it." 


DIVERGING  ROADS  21 

"Well,  he  will.  Surely  he  will,"  Helen  said. 
Her  tone  of  cheerfulness  was  like  a  slender  shaft 
splintering  against  a  stone  wall.  "  And  there  must 
be  some  fruit  left.  If  there  is  n't  much  of  a  crop 
what  we  do  get  ought  to  bring  pretty  good  prices, 
too." 

*'  You  Ve  right  it  ought  to,"  her  father  replied 
bitterly.     "  A  good  crop  never  brings  'em." 

"  Well,  anyway,  I  'm  through  school  now,  and  I  '11 
be  doing  something,"  Helen  said.  She  had  no  clear 
idea  what  it  would  be,  but  suddenly  she  felt  in  her 
youth  and  happiness  a  strength  that  her  discouraged 
father  and  mother  did  not  have.  For  the  first 
time  they  seemed  to  her  old  and  worn,  exhausted 
by  an  unequal  struggle,  and  she  felt  tliat  she  could 
take  them  up  in  her  arms  and  carry  them  tri- 
umphantly to  comfort  and  peace. 

"  Eat  your  breakfast  and  don't  talk  nonsense," 
her  father  said. 

But  her  victorious  mood  revived  while  she  washed 
the  dishes.  She  felt  older,  stronger,  and  more  con- 
fident than  she  had  ever  been.  The  news  of  the 
killing  frost,  which  depressed  her  mother  and  quieted 
even  Mabel's  usual  rebellion  at  having  to  help  with 
the  kitchen  work,  was  to  Helen  a  call  to  action.  She 
splashed  the  dishes  through  the  soapy  water  so 
swiftly  that  Mabel  was  aggrieved. 

"  You  know  I  can't  keep  up,"  she  complained. 
"  It 's  bad  enough  to  have  the  frost  and  never  be 


22  DIVERGING  ROADS 

able  to  get  anything  decent,  and  stick  Here  in  this  old 
kitchen  all  the  time,  without  having  you  act  mean, 
too." 

"  Oh,  don't  start  whining ! "  Helen  began. 
They  always  quarreled  about  the  dishes.  "  I  'd  like 
to  know  who  did  every  smitch  of  work  yesterday, 
while  you  went  chasing  off."  But  looking  down 
at  Mabel's  sullen  little  face,  she  felt  a  wave  of  com- 
passion. Poor  little  Mabel,  whose  whole  heart 
had  been  set  on  a  new  dress  this  summer, 
who  did  n't  have  anything  else  to  make  her 
happy !  "  I  don't  mean  to  be  mean  to  you, 
Mabel,"  she  said.  She  put  an  arm  around  the  thin, 
angular  shoulders.  "  Never  mind,  everything  '11  be 
all  right,  somehow." 

That  afternoon  when  the  ironing  was  finished 
she  dressed  in  her  pink  gingham  and  best  shoes. 
She  was  going  to  town  for  the  mail,  she  explained 
to  her  mother,  and  when  her  sister  said,  "  Why,  you 
went  day  before  yesterday!  "  she  replied,  "  Well,  I 
guess  I  '11  just  go  to  town,  anyway.  I  feel  like 
walking  somewhere." 

Her  mother  apparently  accepted  the  explanation 
without  further  thought.  The  blindness  of  other 
people  astonished  Helen.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
every  blade  of  grass  in  the  fields,  every  scrap  of 
white  cloud  in  the  sky,  knew  that  she  was  going  to 
see  Paul.     The  roadside  cried  it  aloud  to  her. 

She  let  her  hand  rest  a  moment  on  the  gate  as 


DIVERGING  ROADS  23 

she  went  through.  It  was  the  gate  on  which  they 
leaned  when  he  brought  her  home  from  church  on 
Sunday  nights.  She  could  feel  his  presence  there 
still;  she  could  almost  see  the  dark  mass  of  his 
shoulders  against  the  starry  sky,  and  the  white 
blur  of  his  face. 

The  long  lane  by  Peterson's  meadow  was  crowded 
with  memories  of  him.  Here  they  had  stopped  to 
gather  poppies;  there,  just  beside  the  gray  stone, 
he  had  knelt  one  day  to  tie  her  shoe.  On  the  little 
bridge  shaded  by  the  oak-trees  they  always  stopped 
to  lean  on  the  rail  and  watch  their  reflections  shot 
across  by  ripples  of  light  in  the  stream  below.  She 
was  dazzled  by  the  beauty  of  the  world  as  she  went 
by  all  these  places.  The  sky  was  blue.  It  was  a 
revelation  to  her.  She  had  never  known  that  skies 
were  blue  with  that  heart-shaking  blueness  or  that 
hills  held  golden  lights  and  violet  shadows  on  their 
green  slopes.  She  had  never  seen  that  shadows  in 
the  late  afternoon  were  purple  as  grapes,  and  that  the 
very  air  held  a  faint  tinge  of  orange  light.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  blind  all  her  life. 

She  stood  some  time  on  the  little  bridge,  looking  at 
all  this  loveliness,  and  she  said  his  name  to  herself, 
under  her  breath  "  Paul."  A  quiver  ran  along  her 
nerves  at  the  sound  of  it. 

He  would  be  busy  handling  baggage  at  the  station 
when  Number  Five  came  in.  She  thought  of  his 
sturdy  shoulders  in  the  blue  work-shirt,  the  smooth 


24  DIVERGING  ROADS 

forehead  under  his  ragged  cap,  the  straight-look- 
ing blue  eyes  and  firm  hps.  She  would  stand  a  little 
apart,  by  the  window  where  the  telegraph-keys  were 
clicking,  and  he  would  pass,  pushing  a  hand-truck 
through  the  crowd  on  the  platform.  Their  eyes 
would  meet,  and  the  look  would  be  like  a  bond 
subtly  uniting  them  in  an  intimacy  unperceived  by 
the  oblivious  people  who  jostled  them.  Then  she 
would  go  away,  walking  slowly  through  the  town, 
and  he  would  overtake  her  on  his  way  home  to  sup- 
per. She  could  tell  him,  then,  about  the  frost.  Her 
thoughts  went  no  further  than  that.  They  stopped 
with  Paul. 

But  before  she  reached  his  house  she  saw  Sammy 
Hamer  frolicking  in  the  road,  hilarious  in  the  first 
spring  freedom  of  going  barefoot.  He  skipped 
from  side  to  side,  his  wide  straw  hat  flapping;  he 
shied  a  stone  at  a  bird ;  he  whistled  shrilly  between 
his  teeth.  When  he  saw  her  he  sobered  quickly 
and  came  trotting  down  the  road,  reaching  her,  pant- 
ing. 

"  I  was  coming  out  to  your  house  just 's  fast  as 
I  could,"  he  said.  "  I  got  a  note  for  you."  He 
sought  anxiously  in  his  pockets,  found  it  in  the 
crown  of  his  hat.  "  He  gave  me  a  nickel,  and  said 
to  wait  if  they  's  an  answer." 

She  saw  that  his  eyes  were  fixed  curiously  on  her 
hands,  which  shook  so  with  excitement  that  she 


DIVERGING  ROADS  25 

could  hardly  tear  the  railway  company's  yellow  en- 
velope.    She  read: 

Dear  Friend  Helen: 

I  have  got  a  new  job  and  I  have  to  go  to  Ripley  to- 
night where  I  am  going  to  work.  I  would  like  to  see  you 
before  I  go,  as  I  do  not  know  when  I  can  come  back, 
but  probably  not  for  a  long  time.  I  did  not  know  I  was 
going  till  this  afternoon  and  I  have  to  go  on  the  Cannon- 
ball.  Can  you  meet  me  about  eight  o'clock  by  the  bridge  ? 
I  have  to  pack  yet  and  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  get  time  to 
come  out  to  your  house  and  I  want  to  see  you  very  much. 
Please  answer  by  Sammy. 

Your  Friend,  Paul. 

Sammy's  interested  gaze  had  shifted  from  her 
hands  to  her  face.  It  rested  on  her  like  an  unbear- 
able light.  She  could  not  think  with  those  calm 
observant  eyes  upon  her.  She  must  think.  What 
must  she  think  about?  Oh,  yes,  an  answer.  A 
pencil.     She  did  not  have  a  pencil. 

"  Tell  him  I  did  n't  have  a  pencil,"  she  said. 
"  Tell  him  I  said,  *  Yes.'  "  And  as  Sammy  still 
lingered,  watching  her  with  unashamed  curiosity, 
she  added  sharply,  "  Hurry !     hurry  up  now !  " 

It  was  a  relief  to  sit  down,  when  at  last  Sammy 
had  disappeared  around  the  bend  in  the  road.  The 
whirling  world  seemed  to  settle  somewhat  into  place 
then.  She  had  never  thought  of  Paul's  going  away. 
She  wondered  dully  if  it  were  a  good  job,  and  if  he 
were  glad  to  go. 


CHAPTER  III 

SHE  came  down  the  road  again  a  little  after 
seven  o'clock.  It  was  another  cold  night,  and 
the  stars  glittered  frostily  in  a  sky  almost  as  black  as 
the  hills.  The  road  lost  itself  in  darkness  before 
her,  and  the  fields  stretched  out  into  a  darkness  that 
seemed  illimitable,  as  endless  as  the  sky.  She  felt 
herself  part  of  the  night  and  the  cold. 

For  an  eternity  she  walked  up  and  down  the  road, 
waiting.  Once  she  went  as  far  as  the  top  of  the 
hill  beyond  the  bridge,  and  saw  shining  against  the 
blackness  the  yellow  lights  of  his  house.  She  looked 
at  them  for  a  long  time.  She  thought  that  she 
would  watch  them  until  he  came  out.  But  she  was 
driven  to  walking  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  stumb- 
ling in  the  ruts  of  the  road.  At  last  she  saw  him 
coming,  and  stood  still  in  the  pool  of  darkness  under 
the  oaks  until  he  reached  her. 

"  Helen?  "  he  said  uncertainly.     **  Is  it  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.     Her  throat  ached. 

"  I  came  as  quick  as  I  could,"  he  said.  Some- 
how she  knew  that  his  throat  ached,  too.  They 
moved  to  the  little  railing  of  the  bridge  and  stood 
trying  to  see  each  other's  faces  in  the  gloom.  "  Are 
you  cold  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  said.  She  saw  then  that  the  shawl 
26 


DIVERGING  ROADS  27 

had  slipped  from  her  shoulders  and  was  dragging 
over  one  arm.  The  wind  fluttered  it,  and  her  hands 
were  clumsy,  trying  to  pull  it  back  into  place. 

"  Here,"  he  was  taking  off  his  coat.  "  No,"  she 
said  again.  But  she  let  him  wrap  half  the  coat 
around  her.  They  stood  close  together  in  the  folds 
of  it.  The  chilly  wind  flowed  around  them  like 
water,  and  the  warmth  of  their  trembling  bodies 
made  a  Httle  island  of  cosiness  in  a  sea  of  cold. 

"  I  got  to  go,"  he  said.  "  It 's  a  good  job.  Fifty 
dollars  a  month.  I  got  to  support  mother,  you 
know.  Her  money  's  pretty  nearly  gone  already, 
and  she  spent  a  lot  putting  me  through  school.  I 
just  got  to  go.     I  wish  —  I  wish  I  did  n't  have  to." 

She  tried  to  hold  her  lips  steady. 

"  It 's  all  right,"  she  said.  "  I  'm  glad  you  got  a 
good  job." 

"  You  mean  you  are  n't  going  to  miss  me  when 
I  'm  gone  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  '11  miss  you." 

'T  'm  going  to  miss  you  an  awful  lot,"  he  said 
huskily.     "  You  going  to  write  to  me?  " 

"  Yes,  I  '11  write  if  you  will." 

"  You  are  n't  going  to  forget  me  —  you  are  n't 
going  to  get  to  going  with  anybody  else  —  are 
you?" 

She  could  not  answer.  The  trembling  that  shook 
them  carried  them  beyond  speech.  Wind  and  dark- 
ness melted  together  in  a  rushing  flood  around  them. 


28  DIVERGING  ROADS 

The  ache  in  her  throat  dissolved  into  tears,  and  they 
clung  together,  cheek  against  hot  cheek,  in  voiceless 
misery. 

"Oh,  Helen!  Oh,  Helen!"  She  was  crushed 
against  the  beating  of  his  heart,  his  arms  hurt  her. 
She  wanted  them  to  hurt  her.  "  You  're  so  — 
you  're  so  —  sweet !  "  he  stammered,  and  gropingly 
they  found  each  other's  lips. 

Words  came  back  to  her  after  a  time. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  go  away,"  she  sobbed. 

His  arms  tightened  around  her,  then  slowly  re- 
laxed. His  chin  lifted,  and  she  knew  that  his  mouth 
was  setting  into  its  firm  lines  again. 

"  I  got  to,"  he  said.  The  finality  of  the  words 
was  like  something  solid  beneath  their  feet  once 
more. 

"Of  course  —  I  did  n't  mean  — "  She  moved  a 
little  away  from  him,  smoothing  her  hair  with  a 
shaking  hand.  A  new  solemnity  had  descended 
upon  them  both.  They  felt  dimly  that  life  had 
changed  for  them,  that  it  would  never  be  the  same 
again. 

"  I  got  to  think  about  things,"  he  said. 

"Yes  — I  know." 

"  There  's  mother.  Fifty  dollars  a  month.  We 
just  can't  — '* 

Tears  were  welling  slowly  from  her  eyes  and 
running  down  her  cheeks.  She  was  not  able  to 
stop  them. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  29 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  I  've  got  to  do  something  to 
help  at  home,  too."  She  groped  for  the  shawl  at 
her  feet.  He  picked  it  up  and  wrapped  it  carefully 
around  her. 

They  walked  up  and  down  in  the  starlight,  trying 
to  talk  soberly,  feeling  very  old  and  sad,  a  weight 
on  their  hearts.  Ripley  was  a  station  in  the  San 
Joaquin  valley,  he  told  her.  He  was  going  to  be 
night  operator  there.  He  could  not  keep  a  shade 
of  self-importance  from  his  voice,  but  he  explained 
conscientiously  that  there  would  not  be  much  tele- 
graphing. Very  few  train  orders  were  sent  there 
at  night.  But  it  was  a  good  job  for  a  beginner  and 
pretty  soon  maybe  he  would  be  able  to  get  a  better 
one.  Say,  when  he  was  twenty  or  twenty-one  sev- 
enty-five dollars  a  month  perhaps.  It  would  n't  be 
long  to  wait.     They  were  clinging  together  again. 

"  You  —  we  must  n't,"  she  said. 

"  It 's  all  right  —  just  one  —  when  you  're  en- 
gaged." She  sobbed  on  his  shoulder,  and  their 
kisses  were  salty  with  tears. 

He  left  her  at  her  gate.  The  memory  of  all  the 
times  they  had  stood  there  was  the  last  unbearable 
pain.  They  held  each  other  tight,  without  speak- 
ing. 

"  You  —  have  n't  said  —  tell  me  you  —  love  me," 
he  stammered  after  a  long  time. 

"  I  love  you,"  she  said,  as  though  it  were  a  sacra- 
ment.    He  was  silent  for  another  moment,  and  in 


30  DIVERGING  ROADS 

the  dim  starlight  she  felt  rather  than  saw  a  strange, 
half -terrifying  expression  on  his  face. 

"  Will  you  go  away  with  me  —  right  now  —  and 
marry  me  —  if  I  ask  you  to?"  His  voice  was 
hoarse. 

She  felt  that  she  was  taking  all  she  was  or  could 
be  in  her  cupped  hands  and  offering  it  to  him. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

His  whole  body  shook  with  a  long  sob.  He  tried 
to  say  something,  choking,  tearing  himself  roughly 
away  from  her.  She  saw  him  going  down  the  road, 
almost  running,  and  then  the  darkness  hid  him. 

In  the  days  that  followed  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  could  have  borne  the  separation  better  if  she  had 
not  been  left  behind.  He  had  gone  down  the  shin- 
ing lines  of  track  beyond  Cherokee  Hill  into  a  vague 
big  world  that  baffled  her  thoughts.  He  wrote  that 
he  had  been  in  San  Francisco  and  taken  a  ride  on  a 
sight-seeing  car.  It  was  a  splendid  place,  he  said; 
he  wished  she  could  see  the  things  he  saw.  He  had 
seen  Chinatown,  the  Presidio,  the  beach,  and  Seal 
Rocks.  Then  he  had  gone  on  to  Ripley,  which 
wasn't  much  like  Masonville.  He  was  well,  and 
hoped  she  was,  and  he  thought  of  her  every  day 
and  was  hers  lovingly.  Paul.  But  she  felt  that  she 
was  losing  touch  with  him,  and  when  she  con- 
templated two  or  three  long  years  of  waiting  she 
felt  that  she  would  lose  him  entirely.     She  thought 


DIVERGING  ROADS  31 

again  of  that  young  couple  at  Rollo,  and  pangs  of 
envy  were  added  to  the  misery  in  which  she  was 
living. 

He  had  been  gone  two  weeks  when  she  announced 
to  her  mother  that  she  was  going  to  be  a  telegraph- 
operator.  She  held  to  the  determination  with  a  ten- 
acity that  surprised  even  herself.  She  argued,  she 
pleaded,  she  pointed  out  the  wages  she  would  earn, 
the  money  she  could  send  home.  There  was  a  notice 
in  the  Masonville  weekly  paper,  advertising  a  school 
of  telegraphy  in  Sacramento,  saying :  "  Operators  in 
great  demand.  Graduates  earn  $75  to  $100  a  month 
up."  She  wrote  to  that  school,  and  immediately  a 
reply  came,  assuring  her  that  she  could  learn  in 
three  months,  that  railroad  and  telegraph  companies 
were  clamoring  for  operators,  that  the  school  guar- 
anteed all  its  graduates  good  positions.  The  tuition 
was  fifty  dollars. 

Her  father  said  he  guessed  that  settled  it. 

But  in  the  end  she  won.  When  he  renewed  the 
mortgage  he  borrowed  another  hundred  dollars  from 
the  bank.  Fifty  dollars  seemed  a  fortune  on  which 
to  live  for  three  months.  Her  mother  and  she  went 
over  her  clothes  together,  and  her  mother  gave  her 
the  telescope-bag  in  which  to  pack  them. 

An  awkward  intimacy  grew  up  between  the  two 
while  they*worked.  Her  mother  said  it  w^as  just  as 
well  for  her  to  have  a  good  job  for  a  while.  May- 
be she  would  n^t  make  a  fool  of  herself,  getting  mar- 


32  DIVERGING  ROADS 

ried  before  she  knew  her  own  mind.  Helen  said 
nothing.  She  felt  that  it  was  not  easy  to  talk  with 
one's  mother  about  things  like  getting  married. 

Her  mother  said  one  other  thing  that  stayed  in 
her  mind,  perhaps  because  of  its  indefiniteness,  per- 
haps because  of  her  mother's  embarrassment  when 
she  said  it,  an  embarrassment  that  made  them  both 
constrained. 

**  There  's  something  I  got  to  say  to  you,  Helen," 
she  said,  keeping  her  eyes  on  the  waist  she  was 
ironing  and  flushing  hotly.  "  Your  father's  still 
against  this  idea  of  your  going  away.  He  says  first 
thing  we  know  we  '11  have  you  back  on  our  hands,  in 
trouble.  Now  I  want  you  should  promise  me  if  any- 
thing comes  up  that  looks  like  it  wasn't  just  right, 
you  let  me  know  right  away,  and  I  '11  come  straight 
down  to  Trenton  and  get  you.  I  'm  going  to  be 
worried  about  you,  off  alone  in  a  city  like  that." 

She  promised  quickly,  uncertainly,  and  her  mother 
began  in  a  hurry  to  talk  of  something  else.  Mrs. 
Updike,  who  lived  on  the  next  farm,  was  going 
down  to  San  Francisco  to  visit  her  sister.  She 
would  take  Helen  as  far  as  Sacramento  and  see  her 
settled  there.  Helen  must  be  sure  to  eat  her  meals 
regularly  and  keep  her  clothes  mended  and  write 
every  week  and  study  hard.  She  promised  all  those 
things. 

There  was  a  flurry  on  the  last  morning.  Between 
tears  and  excitement,  Mabel  was  half  hysterical. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  33 

Tommy  kept  getting  in  the  way,  her  mother  un- 
packed the  bag  a  dozen  times  to  be  sure  that  nothing 
was  left  out.  They  all  drove  to  town,  crowded  into 
the  two-seated  light  wagon,  and  there  was  another 
flurry  at  the  station  when  the  train  came  in.  She 
hugged  them  all  awkwardly,  smiling  with  tears  in 
her  eyes.  She  felt  for  the  first  time  how  much  she 
loved  them. 

Until  the  train  rounded  the  curve  south  of  town 
she  gazed  back  at  Masonville  and  the  little  yellow 
station  where  Paul  had  worked.  Then  she  settled 
back  against  red  velvet  cushions  to  watch  unfamiliar 
trees  and  hills  flashing  backward  past  the  windows. 
She  had  an  excited  sense  of  adventure,  wondering 
what  the  school  would  be  like,  promising  herself 
again  to  study  hard^  She  and  Mrs.  Updike  worried 
at  intervals,  fearing  lest  by  some  mischance  Mr. 
Weeks,  the  manager  of  the  school,  would  fail  to  meet 
them  at  the  Sacramento  station.  They  wore  bits  of 
red  yarn  in  their  buttonholes  so  that  he  would  recog- 
nize them. 

He  was  waiting  when  the  train  stopped.  He  was 
a  thin,  well-dressed  man,  with  a  young  face  that 
seemed  oddly  old,  like  a  half-ripe  apple  withered. 
He  hurried  them  through  noisy,  bustling  streets,  on 
and  off  street-cars,  up  a  stairway  at  last  to  the 
school. 

There  were  two  rooms,  a  small  one,  which  was  the 
office,  and  a  larger  one,  bare  and  not  very  clean, 


34  DIVERGING  ROADS 

lighted  by  two  high  windows  looking  out  on  an  alley. 
In  the  large  room  were  half  a  dozen  tables,  each 
with  a  telegraph-sounder  and  key  upon  it.  There 
was  no  one  there  at  the  moment,  Mr.  Weeks  ex- 
plained, because  it  was  Saturday  afternoon.  The 
school  usually  did  no  business  on  Satirday  after- 
noons, but  he  would  make  an  exception  for  Helen. 
If  she  liked,  he  said  briskly,  she  could  pay  him  the 
tuition  now,  and  begin  her  studies  early  Monday 
morning.  He  was  sure  she  would  be  a  good  op- 
erator, and  he  guaranteed  her  a  good  position  when 
she  graduated.  He  would  even  give  her  a  written 
guarantee,  if  she  wished.  But  she  did  not  ask  for 
that.  It  would  have  seemed  to  imply  a  doubt  of 
Mr.  Weeks'  good  faith. 

Mrs.  Updike,  panting  from  climbing  the  stairs 
and  nervous  with  anxiety  about  catching  her  train, 
asked  him  about  rooms.  Providentially,  he  knew  a 
very  good  one  and  cheap,  next  door  to  the  school. 
He  was  kind  enough  to  take  them  to  see  it. 

There  were  a  number  of  rooms  in  a  row,  all  open- 
ing on  a  long  hallway  reached  by  stairs  from  the 
street.  They  were  kept  by  Mrs.  Brown,  who  man- 
aged the  restaurant  down-stairs.  She  was  a  sallow 
little  woman,  with  very  bright  brown  eyes  and  yellow 
hair.  She  talked  continuously  in  a  light,  mechani- 
cally gay  voice,  making  quick  movements  with  her 
hands  and  moving  about  the  room  with  a  whisking 


DIVERGING  ROADS  35 

of  silk  petticoats,  driven,  it  seemed,  by  an  intensity 
of  energy  almost  feverish. 

The  room  rented  for  six  dollars  a  month.  It  had 
a  large  bow-window  overlooking  the  street,  gaily 
flowered  wall-paper,  a  red  carpet,  a  big  wooden  bed, 
a  wash-stand  with  pitcher  and  bowl,  and  two  rock- 
ing chairs.  At  the  end  of  the  long  hall  was  a  bath- 
room with  a  white  tub  in  it,  the  first  Helen  had 
seen.  There  was  something  metropolitan  about  that 
tub ;  a  bath  in  it  would  be  an  event  far  different  from 
the  Saturday  night  scrubs  in  the  tin  wash-tub  at 
home.  And  she  could  eat  in  the  restaurant  below; 
very  good  meals  for  twenty  cents,  or  even  for  less  if 
she  wanted  to  buy  a  meal-ticket. 

"  I  guess  it 's  as  good  as  you  can  do,"  said  Mrs. 
Updike. 

"  I  think  it 's  lovely,"  Helen  said. 

So  it  was  settled.  Helen  gave  Mrs.  Brown  six 
dollars,  and  she  whisked  away  after  saying :  "  I  'm 
sure  I  hope  you  '11  like  it,  dearie,  and  if  there  's  any- 
thing you  want,  you  let  me  know.  I  sleep  right  in 
the  next  room,  so  nothing  's  going  to  bother  you,  and 
if  you  get  lonesome,  just  come  and  knock  on  my 
door." 

Then  Mrs.  Updike,  with  a  hasty  farewell  peck  at 
her  cheek,  hurried  away  to  catch  her  train,  Mr. 
Weeks  going  with  her  to  take  her  to  the  station,  and 
Helen  was  left  alone. 


36  DIVERGING  ROADS 

She  locked  her  door  first,  and  counted  her  money, 
feeHng  very  businesslike.  Then  she  unpacked  her 
bag  and  put  away  her  things,  pausing  now  and  then 
to  look  around  the  room  that  was  hers.  It  seemed 
very  large  and  luxurious.  She  felt  a  pleasant  sense 
of  responsibility  when  everything  was  neatly  in  or- 
der and  she  stood  at  the  window,  looking  down  the 
street  to  the  corner  where  at  intervals  she  saw  street- 
cars passing.  She  promised  herself  to  work  very 
hard,  and  to  pay  back  soon  the  money  her  father 
had  lent  her,  with  interest. 

Then  she  thought,  smiling,  that  in  a  little  while 
she  would  go  downstairs  and  eat  supper  in  a  restau- 
rant, and  then  she  would  buy  a  tablet  and  pencil  and, 
coming  back  to  this  beautiful  room,  she  would  sit 
down  all  alone  and  write  a  letter  to  Paul. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  thought  of  Paul  was  the  one  clear  reality 
in  Helen's  life  while  she  blundered  through 
the  bewilderments  of  the  first  months  in  Sacramento. 
It  was  the  only  thing  that  warmed  her  in  the  midst  of 
the  strangeness  that  surrounded  her  like  a  thin, 
cold  fog. 

There  was  the  school.  She  did  not  know  what 
she  had  expected,  but  she  felt  vaguely  that  she  had 
not  found  it.  Faithfully  every  morning  at  eight 
o'clock  she  was  at  her  table  in  the  dingy  back  room, 
struggling  to  translate  the  dots  and  dashes  of  the 
Morse  alphabet  into  crisp,  even  clicks  of  the  sounder. 
There  were  three  other  pupils,  farm  boys  who  moved 
their  necks  uncomfortably  in  stiff  collars  and  red- 
dened when  they  looked  at  her. 

There  was  a  wire  from  that  room  into  the  front 
office.  Sometimes  its  sounder  opened,  and  they 
knew  that  Mr.  Weeks  was  going  to  send  them  some- 
thing to  copy.  They  moved  to  that  table  eagerly. 
There  were  days  when  the  sounder  did  not  click 
again,  and  after  a  while  one  of  the  boys  would 
tiptoe  to  the  office  and  report  that  Mr.  Weeks  was 
asleep.     On  other  days  the  sounder  would  tap  for 


38  DIVERGING  ROADS 

a  long  time  meaninglessly,  while  they  looked  at  each 
other  in  bewilderment.  Then  it  would  make  a  few 
shaky  letters  and  stop  and  make  a  few  more. 

Then  for  several  days  Mr.  Weeks  would  not  come 
to  the  school  at  all.  They  sank  into  a  kind  of 
stupor,  sitting  in  the  close,  warm  room,  while  flies 
buzzed  on  the  window-pane.  Helen's  moist  finger 
tips  stuck  to  the  hard  rubber  of  the  key;  it  was  an 
effort  to  remember  the  alphabet.  But  she  kept  at 
work  doggedly,  knowing  how  much  depended  upon 
her  success.  Always  before  her  was  the  vision  of 
the  station  where  she  would  work  with  Paul,  a  little 
yellow  station  with  housekeeping  rooms  up^stairs. 
She  thought,  too,  of  the  debt  she  owed  her  father, 
and  the  help  she  could  give  him  later  when  she  was 
earning  money. 

Bit  by  bit  she  learned  a  little  about  the  other  pupils. 
Two  of  them  had  come  down  from  Mendocino 
County  together.  They  had  worked  two  summers 
to  earn  the  money,  and  yet  they  had  been  able  to 
save  only  seventy-five  dollars  for  the  tuition.  How- 
ever, they  had  been  sharp  enough  to  persuade  Mr. 
Weeks  to  take  them  for  that  sum.  They  lived  to- 
gether in  one  room,  and  cooked  their  meals  over 
the  gas-jet.  It  was  one  of  them  who  asked  Helen 
if  she  knew  that  gas  would  kill  a  person. 

"If  you  turned  it  on  for  a  long  time  and  set  fire 
to  it,  I  suppose  it  would  burn  you  up,"  she  said 
doubtfully. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  39 

"  I  don't  mean  that  way,"  he  informed  her,  ex- 
cited. **  It  kills  you  if  you  just  breathe  it  long 
enough.  It 's  poison."  After  that  she  looked  with 
terrified  respect  at  the  gas-jet  in  her  room,  and  was 
always  very  careful  to  turn  it  off  tightly. 

The  other  boy  had  a  more  knowing  air  and 
smoked  cigarettes.  He  swaggered  a  little,  giving 
them  to  understand  that  he  was  a  man  of  the  world 
and  knew  all  the  wickedness  of  the  city.  He  looked 
at  Helen  with  eyes  she  did  not  like,  and  once  asked 
her  to  go  to  a  show  with  him.  Although  she  was 
very  lonely  and  had  never  seen  a  show  in  a  real 
theater,  she  refused.  She  felt  that  Paul  would  not 
like  her  to  go.  At  the  end  of  three  months  in  Sac- 
ramento these  were  the  only  people  she  knew,  except 
Mrs.  Brown. 

She  felt  that  she  would  like  Mrs.  Brown  if  she 
knew  her  better.  Her  shyness  kept  her  from  saying 
more  than  "  Good  evening,"  when  she  handed  her 
meal-ticket  over  the  restaurant  counter  to  be 
punched,  and  for  some  inexplicable  reason  Mrs. 
Brown  seemed  shy  with  her.  It  was  her  own  fault, 
Helen  thought;  Mrs.  Brown  laughed  and  talked 
gaily  with  the  men  customers,  cajoling  them  into 
buying  cigars  and  chewing-gum  from  her  little  stock. 

Helen  speculated  about  Mr.  Brown.  She  never 
saw  him;  she  felt  quite  definitely  that  he  was  not 
alive.  Yet  Mrs.  Brown  often  looked  at  her  wide 
wedding-ring,  turning  it  on  her  finger  as  if  she  wer^ 


40  DIVERGING  ROADS 

not  quite  accustomed  to  wearing  it.  A  widow,  and 
so  young!  Helen's  heart  ached  at  the  thought  of 
that  brief  romance.  Mrs.  Brown's  thin  figure  and 
bright  yellow  hair  were  those  of  a  girl;  only  her 
eyes  were  old.  It  must  be  grief  that  had  given  them 
that  hard,  weary  look.  Helen  smiled  at  her  wist- 
fully over  the  counter,  longing  to  express  her  friend- 
liness and  sympathy.  But  Mrs.  Brown's  manner 
always  baffled  her. 

These  meetings  were  not  frequent.  Helen  tried 
to  make  her  three-dollar  meal  ticket  last  a  month, 
and  that  meant  that  only  five  times  a  week  she  could 
sit  in  state,  eating  warm  food  in  an  atmosphere  thick 
with  smells  of  coffee  and  stew  and  hamburger  steak. 
She  had  learned  that  cinnamon  rolls  could  be  bought 
for  half  price  on  Saturday  nights,  and  she  kept  a  bag 
of  them  in  her  room,  and  some  fruit.  This  made 
her  a  little  uneasy  when  she  saw  Mrs.  Brown's 
anxious  eye  on  the  vacant  tables;  she  felt  that 
she  was  defrauding  Mrs.  Brown  by  eating  in  her 
room. 

Mrs.  Brown  worked  very  hard,  Helen  knew.  It 
was  she  who  swept  the  hall  and  kept  the  rooms  in 
order.  She  did  not  do  it  very  well,  but  Helen  saw 
her  sometimes  in  the  evenings  working  at  it.  She 
swept  with  quick,  feverish  strokes.  Her  yellow  hair 
straggled  over  her  face ;  her  high  heels  clicked  on  the 
floor ;  her  petticoats  made  a  whisking  sound.  There 
was  something  piteous  about  her,  as  there  is  about 


DIVERGING  ROADS  41 

a  little  trained  animal  on  the  stage,  set  to  do  tasks 
for  which  it  is  not  fitted.  Helen  stole  down  the 
hallway  at  night,  taking  the  broom  from  its  corner 
as  if  she  was  committing  a  theft,  and  surreptitiously 
swept  and  dusted  her  own  room,  so  that  Mrs.  Brown 
would  not  have  to  do  it. 

She  wished  that  it  took  more  time.  When  she 
had  finished  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  sit  at  her 
window  and  look  down  at  the  street.  People  went 
up  and  down,  strolling  leisurely  in  the  warm  summer 
evening.  She  saw  girls  in  dainty  dresses,  walking 
about  in  groups,  and  the  sight  increased  her  loneli- 
ness. Buggies  went  by;  a  man  with  his  wife  and 
children  out  driving,  a  girl  and  her  sweetheart.  At 
the  corner  there  was  the  clanging  of  street-cars,  and 
she  watched  to  see  them  passing,  brightly  lighted, 
filled  with  people.  Once  in  a  while  she  saw  an  auto- 
mobile, and  her  breath  quickened,  she  leaned  from 
the  window  until  it  was  out  of  sight.  She  felt  then 
the  charm  of  the  city,  with  its  crowds,  its  glitter, 
its  strange,  hurried  life. 

Two  young  men  passed  often  down  that  street 
in  an  automobile.  They  looked  up  at  her  window 
when  they  went  by  and  slowed  the  machine.  If  she 
were  leaning  on  the  sill,  they  waved  to  her  and 
shouted  gaily.  She  always  pretended  that  she  had 
not  seen  them,  and  drew  back,  but  she  watched  for 
the  machine  to  pass  again.  It  seemed  to  be  a  link 
between  her  and  all  that  exciting  life  from  which 


42  DIVERGING  ROADS 

she  was  shut  out.     She  would  have  liked  to  know 
those  young  men. 

She  sat  at  the  window  one  evening  near  the  end  of 
the  three  months  that  she  had  planned  to  spend  in 
the  telegraph  school.  Paul's  picture  was  in  her 
hand.  He  had  had  it  taken  for  her  in  Ripley,  It 
was  a  beautiful,  shiny  picture,  cabinet  size,  showing 
him  against  a  tropical  background  of  palms  and 
ferns.  He  had  taken  off  a  derby  hat,  which  he  held 
self-consciously;  his  stocky  figure  wore  an  air  of 
prosperity  in  an  unfamiliar  suit. 

She  brooded  upon  the  firm  line  of  his  chin,  the 
clean-cut  lips,  the  smooth  forehead  from  which  the 
hair  was  brushed  back  slickly.  His  neck  was  turned 
so  that  his  eyes  did  not  quite  meet  hers.  It  was 
baffling,  that  aloof  gaze ;  it  hurt  a  little.  She  wished 
that  he  would  look  at  her.  She  felt  that  the  picture 
would  help  her  more  if  he  would,  and  she  needed 
help. 

Mr.  Weeks  had  returned  from  one  of  his  long 
absences  that  day,  and  she  had  taken  courage  to  ask 
him  about  a  job.  He  had  listened  while  she  stood 
beside  his  desk,  stammering  out  her  worry  and  her 
need.  Her  money  was  almost  gone;  she  thought 
she  telegraphed  pretty  well,  she  had  studied  hard. 
She  w^atched  his  shaking  hand  fumbling  with  some 
papers  on  his  desk,  and  felt  pityingly  that  she  should 
not  bother  him  when  he  was  sick.  But  desperation 
drove  her  on.     She  did  not  suspect  the  truth  until 


DIVERGING  ROADS  43 

he  looked  up  at  her  with  reddened  eyes  and  answered 
incoherently.     Then  she  saw  that  he  was  drunk. 

Her  shock  of  loathing  came  upon  her  in  a  wave 
of  nausea.  She  trembled  so  that  she  could  hardly 
get  down  the  stairs,  and  she  had  walked  a  long 
time  in  the  clean  sunshine  before  the  full  realization 
of  what  it  meant  chilled  her.  She  sat  now  con- 
fronting that  realization. 

She  had  only  two  dollars,  a  half -used  meal-ticket, 
and  a  week's  rent  paid  in  advance.  She  saw  clearly 
that  she  could  hope  for  nothing  from  the  telegraph 
school.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  blame  anybody. 
Her  mind  ran  desperately  from  thought  to  thought, 
like  a  caged  creature  seeking  escape  between  iron 
bars. 

She  could  not  go  home.  She  could  not  live  there 
again,  defeated,  knowing  day  by  day  that  she  had 
added  a  hundred  dollars  to  the  mortgage.  She  had 
told  Paul  so  confidently  that  she  could  do  as  well  as  a 
boy  if  she  had  the  chance,  and  she  had  had  the 
chance.  He  could  not  help  her.  The  street  below 
was  full  of  happy  people  going  by,  absorbed  in  their 
own  concerns,  careless  of  hers. 

She  had  not  seen  the  automobile  with  the  two 
young  men  in  it  until  it  stopped  across  the  street. 
Even  then  she  saw  it  dimly  with  dull  eyes.  But  the 
two  young  men  were  looking  up  at  her  window, 
talking  together,  looking  up  again.  They  were  get- 
ting out.     They  crossed  the  street.     She  heard  their 


44  DIVERGING  ROADS 

voices  below,  and  a  moment  later  her  heart  began  to 
thump.     They  were  coming  up  the  stairs. 

Something  was  going  to  happen.  At  last  some- 
thing was  going  to  break  the  terrible  loneliness  and 
deadness.  She  stood  listening,  one  hand  at  her 
throat,  alert,  breathless. 

They  were  standing  half-way  up  the  stairs,  talk- 
ing. She  felt  indecision  in  the  sound  of  their  voices. 
One  of  them  ran  down  again.  There  was  an  aching 
silence.  Then  she  heard  footsteps  and  the  high,  gay 
voice  of  Mrs.  Brown.  They  were  laughing  to- 
gether. "  Oh,  you  Kittie!  "  one  of  the  young  men 
said.  The  three  came  up  the  stairs,  and  she  heard 
their  clattering  steps  and  caught  a  word  or  two  as 
they  went  past  her  room.  Then  the  scratch  of  a 
match,  and  light  gleamed  through  the  crack  of  Mrs. 
Brown's  door. 

They  went  on  talking.  It  appeared  that  they  were 
arguing,  coaxing,  urging  something.  Mrs.  Brown's 
voice  put  them  off.  There  was  a  crash  and  laughter. 
She  gathered  that  they  were  scuffling  playfully.  La- 
ter she  heard  Mrs.  Brown's  voice  at  the  head  of 
the  back  stairs,  calling  down  to  some  one  to  send  up 
some  beer. 

Her  tenseness  relaxed.  She  felt  herself  falling 
into  bottomless  depths  of  depression.  The  banter- 
ing argument  was  going  on  again.  Meaningless 
scraps  of  it  came  to  her  while  she  undressed  in  the 
dark  and  crept  into  bed. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  45 

"Aw,  come  on,  Kittie,  be  a  sport!  A  stunning 
looker  like  that !  What  're  you  after  anyhow  — 
money?  " 

"  Cut  that  out.  No,  I  tell  you.  What 's  it  to  you 
why  I  won't?  " 

She  crushed  her  face  into  the  pillow  and  wept 
silently.  It  seemed  the  last  unkindness  of  fate  that 
Mrs.  Brown  should  give  a  party  and  not  ask  her. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  next  day  she  dressed  very  carefully  in  a 
fresh  white  waist  and  her  Indianhead  skirt 
and  went  down  to  the  telegraph-office  to  ask  for  a 
job.  She  knew  where  to  find  the  office;  she  had 
often  looked  at  its  plate-glass  front  lettered  in  blue 
during  her  lonely  walks  on  the  crowded  street.  Her 
heart  thumped  loudly  and  her  knees  were  weak  when 
she  went  through  the  open  door. 

The  big  room  was  cut  across  by  a  long  counter, 
on  which  a  young  man  lounged  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
a  green  eye-shade  pushed  back  on  his  head.  Be- 
hind him  telegraph  instruments  clattered  loudly,  dis- 
turbing the  stifling  quiet  of  the  hot  morning.  The 
young  man  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"  Manager?     Won't  I  do?  "  he  asked. 

She  heard  her  voice  quavering : 

*'  I  'd  rather  see  him  —  if  he  's  busy  —  I  could  — 
wait." 

The  manager  rose  from  the  desk  where  he  had 
been  sitting.  He  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  thin 
hair  combed  carefully  over  the  top  of  his  head.  His 
lips  were  thin,  too,  and  there  were  deep  creases  on 
either  side  of  his  mouth,  like  parentheses.     His  eyes 

46 


DIVERGING  ROADS  47 

looked  her  over,  interested.  He  was  sorry,  he  said. 
He  did  n't  need  another  operator.  She  had  expe- 
rience ? 

She  was  a  graduate  of  Weeks'  School  of  Te- 
legraphy, she  told  him  breathlessly.  She  could  send 
perfectly,  she  was  n't  so  sure  of  her  receiving,  but 
she  would  be  awfully  careful  not  to  make  mistakes. 
She  had  to  have  a  job,  she  just  had  to  have  a  job; 
it  did  n't  matter  how  much  it  paid,  anything.  She 
felt  that  she  could  not  walk  out  of  that  office.  She 
clung  to  the  edge  of  the  counter  as  if  she  were 
drowning  and  it  were  a  life-line. 

"  Well  —  come  in.  I  '11  see  what  you  can  do," 
he  said.  He  swung  open  a  door  in  the  counter,  and 
she  followed  him  between  the  tables.  There  was  a 
dusty  instrument  on  a  battered  desk,  back  by  the  big 
switchboard.  The  manager  took  a  message  from  a 
hook  and  gave  it  to  her.  "  Let 's  hear  you  send 
that." 

She  began  painstakingly.  The  young  man  with 
the  eye-shade  had  wandered  over.  He  stood  leaning 
against  a  table,  listening,  and  after  she  had  made  a 
few  letters  she  felt  that  a  glance  passed  between  him 
and  the  manager,  over  her  head.  She  finished  the 
message,  even  adding  a  careful  period.  She  thought 
she  had  done  very  well.  When  she  looked  up  the 
manager  said  kindly : 

"  Not  so  bad !     You  '11  be  an  operator  some  day." 

"If  you  '11  only  give  me  a  chance,"  she  pleaded. 


48  DIVERGING  ROADS 

He  said  that  he  would  take  her  address  and  let  her 
know.  She  felt  that  the  young  man  was  slightly 
amused.  She  gave  the  manager  her  name  and  the 
street  number.     He  repeated  it  in  surprise. 

"You're  staying  with  Kittie  Brown?''  Again 
a  glance  passed  over  her  head.  Both  of  them  looked 
at  her  with  intensified  interest,  for  which  she  saw  no 
reason.  "  Yes,"  she  replied.  She  felt  keenly  that 
it  was  an  awkward  moment,  and  bewilderment  added 
to  her  confusion.  The  young  man  turned  away 
and,  sitting  down,  began  to  send  a  pile  of  messages, 
working  very  busily,  sending  with  his  right  hand 
and  marking  off  the  messages  with  his  left.  But 
she  felt  that  his  attention  was  still  upon  her  and 
the  manager. 

"Well!  And  you  want  to  work  here?"  The 
manager  rubbed  one  hand  over  his  chin,  smiling. 
"  I  don't  know.     I  might.  " 

"Oh,  if  you  would!" 

He  hesitated  for  an  agonizing  moment. 

"  Well,  I  '11  think  about  it.  Come  and  see  me 
again."  He  held  her  fingers  warmly  when  they 
shook  hands,  and  she  returned  the  pressure  grate- 
fully. She  felt  that  he  was  very  kind.  She  felt, 
too,  that  she  had  conducted  the  interview  very  well, 
and  returning  hope  warmed  her  while  she  went  back 
to  her  room. 

That  afternoon  she  had  a  visitor.  She  had  writ- 
ten her  weekly  letter  to  her  mother,  saying  that  she 


DIVERGING  ROADS  49 

had  almost  finished  school  and  was  expecting  to  get 
a  job,  hesitating  a  long  time,  miserably,  before  she 
added  that  she  did  not  have  much  money  left  and 
would  like  to  borrow  another  five  dollars.  She  had 
eaten  a  stale  roll  and  an  apple  and  was  considering 
how  long  she  could  make  the  meal-ticket  last  when 
she  heard  the  knock  on  her  door. 

She  opened  it  in  surprise,  thinking  there  had  been 
a  mistake.  A  stout,  determined-looking  woman 
stood  there,  a  well-dressed  woman  who  wore  black 
gloves  and  a  veil.  Immediately  Helen  felt  herself 
young,  inexperienced,  a  child  in  firm  hands. 

"You're  Helen  Davies?  I'm  Mrs.  Campbell.'* 
She  stepped  into  the  room,  Helen  giving  way  before 
her  assured  advance.  She  swept  the  place  with  one 
look.  "  What  on  earth  was  your  mother  thinking 
of,  leaving  you  in  a  place  like  this?  Did  you  know 
what  you  were  getting  into?  " 

"  I  don't  —  what  —  w-won't  you  take  a  chair?  " 
said  Helen. 

Mrs.  Campbell  sat  down  gingerly,  very  erect. 
They  looked  at  each  other. 

"  I  might  as  well  talk  straight  out  to  you,"  Mrs. 
Campbell  said,  as  if  it  were  a  customary  phrase.  "  I 
met  Mrs.  Morris,  Mrs.  Updike's  sister,  at  the  lodge 
convention  in  Oakland  last  week,  and  she  told  me 
about  you,  and  I  promised  to  look  you  up.  Well, 
when  I  found  out !  I  told  Mr.  Campbell  I  was  com- 
ing straight  down  here  to  talk  to  you.     If  you  want 


50  DIVERGING  ROADS 

to  stay  in  a  place  like  this,  well  and  good,  it 's  your 
affair.  Though  I  should  feel  it  my  duty  to  write 
to  your  mother.  I  would  n't  want  my  own  girl  left 
in  a  strange  town,  at  your  age,  and  nobody  taking 
any  interest  in  her." 

"  I  'm  sure  it 's  very  kind."  Helen  murmured  in 
bewilderment. 

"  Well," —  Mrs.  Campbell  drew  a  long  breath  and 
plunged, — "  I  suppose  you  know  the  sort  of  person 
this  Kittie  Brown,  she  calls  herself,  is?  I  suppose 
you  know  she  's  a  bad  woman?  " 

A  wave  of  blackness  went  through  the  girl's  mind. 

"  Everybody  in  town  knows  what  she  is,"  Mrs. 
Campbell  continued.  "  Everybody  knows  — "  She 
went  on,  her  voice  growing  more  bitter.  Helen, 
half  hearing  the  words,  choked  back  a  sick  impulse 
to  ask  her  to  stop  talking.  She  felt  that  everything 
about  her  was  poisoned;  she  wanted  to  escape,  to 
hide,  to  feel  that  she  would  never  be  seen  again  by 
any  one.  When  the  hard  voice  had  stopped  it  was 
an  effort  to  speak. 

"But  — what  will  I  do?" 

"Do?  I  should  think  you  'd  want  to  get  out  of 
here  just  as  quick  as  you  could." 

"  Oh,  I  do  want  to.  But  where  can  I  go  ?  I  — 
my  rent 's  paid.     I  have  n't  any  money." 

Mrs.  Campbell  considered. 

"  Well,  you  will  have  money,  won't  you  ?  Your 
folks  don't  expect  you  to  live  here  on  nothing,  do 


DIVERGING  ROADS  51 

they?  If  it 's  only  a  day  or  two,  I  could  take  you 
in  myself  rather  than  leave  you  in  a  place  like  this. 
There  's  plenty  of  decent  places  in  town."  She  be- 
came practical.  "  The  first  thing  to  do  *s  to  pack 
your  things  right  away.  How  long  is  your  rent 
paid?     Can't  you  get  some  of  it  back?  " 

She  waited  while  Helen  packed.  She  did  not  stop 
talking,  and  Helen  tried  to  answer  her  coherently 
and  gratefully.  She  felt  that  she  should  be  grateful. 
They  went  down  the  stairs,  and  Mrs.  Campbell 
waited  outside  the  restaurant  while  Helen  went  in 
to  ask  Mrs.  Brown  to  refund  the  week's  rent. 

It  was  noon,  but  there  were  only  one  or  two 
people  in  the  restaurant.  Mrs.  Brown's  smile  faded 
when  Helen  stammered  that  she  was  leaving. 

"You  are?  What's  wrong?  Anybody  been 
bothering  you?  "  Her  glance  fell  upon  the  waiting 
Mrs.  Campbell,  and  her  sallow  face  whitened. 
"Oh,  that 'sit,  is  it?" 

"  No,"  Helen  said  hastily.  "  That  is,  it 's  been 
very  nice  here,  and  I  liked  it,  but  a  friend  of  mine  — 
she  wants  me  to  stay  with  her.  I  'm  sorry  to  leave, 
but  I  have  n't  much  money."  She  struggled  against 
feeling  pity  for  Mrs.  Brown.  She  choked  over  ask- 
ing her  to  refund  the  rent. 

Mrs.  Brown  said  she  could  not  do  it.  She  offered, 
however,  to  give  Helen  something  in  trade,  two  dol- 
lars' worth.  They  both  tried  to  make  the  trans- 
action commonplace  and  dignified. 


52  DIVERGING  ROADS 

Helen,  at  a  loss,  pointed  out  a  heap  of  peanut 
candy  in  the  glass  counter.  She  had  often  looked 
at  it  and  wished  she  could  afford  to  buy  some.  Mrs. 
Brown's  thin  hands  shook,  but  she  was  piling  the 
candy  on  the  scale  when  Mrs.  Campbell  came 
in. 

"What's  she  doing?"  Mrs.  Campbell  asked 
Helen.     "  You  buying  candy?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  business  it  is  of  yours,  com- 
ing interfering  with  me!  "  Mrs.  Brown  broke  out. 
"  I  never  did  her  any  harm.  I  never  even  talked  to 
her.  You  ask  her  if  I  ever  bothered  her.  You 
ask  her  if  I  did  n't  leave  her  alone.  You  ask  her  if 
I  ain't  keeping  a  decent,  respectable,  quiet  place  and 
doing  the  best  I  can  and  minding  my  own  business 
and  trying  to  make  a  square  living.  You  ask  her 
what  I  ever  did  to  her  all  the  time  she  's  been  here." 
Her  voice  was  high  and  shrill.  Tears  were  rolling 
down  her  face.  Mechanically  she  went  on  break- 
ing up  the  candy  and  piling  it  on  the  scales.  "  I 
don't  know  what  I  ever  did  to  you  that  you  don't 
leave  me  alone,  coming  poking  around." 

"  I  did  n't  come  here  to  talk  to  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Campbell.  "  Come  on  out  of  here,"  she  commanded 
Helen. 

"  I  wish  to  God  you  'd  mind  your  own  business !  " 
Mrs.  Brown  cried  after  them.  "If  you  'd  only  tend 
to  your  own  affairs,  you  good  people !  "  She  hurled 
the  words  after  them  like  a  curse,  her  voice  break- 


DIVERGING  ROADS  53 

ing  with  sobs.  The  door  slammed  under  Mrs. 
Campbell's  angry  hand. 

Helen,  shaking  and  quivering,  tried  not  to  be  sorry 
for  Mrs.  Brown.  She  was  ashamed  of  the  feeling. 
She  knew  that  Mrs.  Campbell  did  not  have  it.  Hur- 
rying to  keep  pace  with  that  furious  lady's  haste 
down  the  street,  she  was  overwhelmed  with  shame 
and  confusion.  The  whole  affair  was  like  a  splash 
of  mud  upon  her.  Her  cheeks  were  red,  and  she 
could  not  make  herself  meet  Mrs.  Campbell's  eyes. 

Even  when  they  were  on  the  street-car,  safely 
away  from  it  all,  her  awkwardness  increased. 
Mrs.  Campbell  herself  was  a  Httle  disconcerted  then. 
She  looked  at  Helen,  at  the  bulging  telescope-bag, 
the  shabby  shoes,  and  the  faded  sailor  hat,  and 
Helen  felt  the  gaze  like  a  burn.  She  knew  that  Mrs. 
Campbell  was  wondering  what  on  earth  to  do  with 
her. 

Pride  and  helplessness  and  shame  choked  her. 
She  tried  to  respond  to  Mrs.  Campbell's  efforts  at 
conversation,  but  she  could  not,  though  she  knew 
that  her  failure  made  Mrs.  Campbell  think  her  sul- 
len. Her  rescuer's  impatient  tone  was  cutting  her 
like  the  lash  of  a  whip  before  they  got  off  the  car. 

Mrs.  Campbell  lived  in  splendor  in  a  two-story 
white  house  on  a  complacent  street.  The  smooth- 
ness of  the  well-kept  lawns,  the  immaculate  pro- 
priety of  the  swept  cement  walks,  cried  out  against 
Helen's  shabbiness.     She  had  never  been  so  aware 


54  DIVERGING  ROADS 

of  it.  When  she  was  seated  in  Mrs.  Campbell's  par- 
lor, oppressed  by  the  velvet  carpet  and  the  piano  and 
the  bead  portieres,  she  tried  to  hide  her  feet  beneath 
the  chair  and  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  her 
hands. 

She  answered  Mrs.  Campbell's  questions  because 
she  must,  but  she  felt  that  her  last  coverings  of  reti- 
cence and  self-respect  were  being  torn  from  her. 
Mrs.  Campbell  offered  only  one  word  of  advice. 
"  The  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  go  home." 
"  No,"  Helen  said.     "  I  —  I  can't  —  do  that." 
Mrs.  Campbell  looked  at  her  curiously,  and  again 
the  red  flamed  in  Helen's  cheeks.     She  said  nothing 
about  the  mortgage.     Mrs.  Campbell  had  not  asked 
about  that. 

"  Well,  you  can  stay  here  a  few  days." 
She  lugged  the  telescope-bag  up  the  stairs,  the 
wooden  steps  of  which  shone  like  glass.  Mrs. 
Campbell  showed  her  a  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 
A  mass  of  things  filled  it;  children's  toys,  old  bas- 
kets, a  broken  chair.  It  was  like  the  closets  at 
home,  but  larger.  It  was  large  enough  to  hold  a 
narrow  white  iron  bed,  a  wash-stand,  and  a 
chair,  and  still  leave  room  to  swing  the  door  open. 
These  things  appeared  when  Mrs.  Campbell  had 
dragged  out  the  others. 

Watching  her  swift,  efficient  motions  in  silence, 
Helen  tried  again  to  feel  gratitude.  But  the  fact 
that  Mrs.  Campbell  expected  it  made  it  impossible. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  55 

She  could  only  stand  awkwardly,  longing  for  the 
moment  when  she  would  be  alone.  When  at  last 
Mrs.  Campbell  went  down-stairs  she  shut  the  door 
quickly  and  softly.  She  wanted  to  fling  herself  on 
the  sagging  bed  and  cry,  but  she  did  not.  She  stood 
with  clenched  hands,  looking  into  the  small,  blurred 
mirror  over  the  washstand.  A  white,  tense  face 
looked  back  at  her  with  burning  eyes.  She  said  to 
it,  "  You  're  going  to  do  something,  do  you  hear  ? 
You  're  going  to  do  something  quick !  "  Although 
she  did  not  know  what  she  could  do,  she  could  keep 
her  self-control  by  telling  herself  that  she  would  do 
something. 

Some  time  later  she  heard  the  shouts  of  children 
and  the  clatter  of  pans  in  the  kitchen  below.  It 
was  almost  supper-time.  She  took  a  cinnamon  roll 
from  the  paper  sack  in  her  bag,  but  she  could  not 
eat  it.  She  was  looking  at  it  when  Mrs.  Campbell 
called  up  the  back  stairs,  "  Miss  Davies !  Come  to 
supper." 

She  braced  herself  and  went  down.  It  was  a 
good  supper,  but  she  could  not  eat  very  much.  Mr. 
Campbell  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  a  stern-look- 
ing man  who  said  little  except  to  speak  sharply  to 
the  children  when  they  were  too  noisy.  There  were 
two  children,  a  girl  of  nine  and  a  younger  boy  in 
a  sailor  suit.  They  looked  curiously  at  Helen  and 
did  not  reply  when  she  tried  to  talk  to  them.  She 
perceived  that  they  had  been  told  to  leave  her  alone, 


56  DIVERGING  ROADS 

and  she  felt  that  her  association  with  a  woman  Hke 
Mrs.  Brown  was  still  visible  upon  her  like  a  splash 
of  mud. 

When  she  timidly  offered  to  help  with  the  dishes 
after  supper  Mrs.  Campbell  told  her  that  she  did  not 
need  any  help.  Her  tone  was  not  unkind,  but  Helen 
felt  the  rebuff,  and  fearing  she  would  cry,  she  went 
quickly  up-stairs. 

She  looked  at  Paul's  picture  for  some  time  before 
she  put  it  back  into  her  bag  where  she  thought 
Mrs.  Campbell  would  not  see  it.  Then,  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed  under  a  flickering  gas-jet,  she 
wrote  him  a  long  letter.  She  told  him  that  she  had 
moved,  and  in  describing  the  street,  the  beautiful 
house,  the  furniture  in  the  parlor,  she  drew  such  a 
picture  of  comfort  and  happiness  that  its  reflection 
warmed  her  somewhat.  It  was  a  beautiful  letter, 
she  thought,  reading  it  over  several  times  before  she 
carefully  turned  out  the  gas  and  went  to  bed. 

Early  in  the  morning  she  went  to  the  telegraph- 
oflice  and  pleaded  again  for  a  job.  Mr.  Roberts, 
the  manager,  was  very  friendly,  talking  to  her  for 
some  time  and  patting  her  hand  in  a  manner  which 
she  thought  fatherly  and  found  comforting.  He 
told  her  to  come  back.     He  might  do  something. 

She  went  back  every  morning  for  a  week,  and  of- 
ten in  the  afternoons.  The  rest  of  the  time  she 
wandered  in  the  streets  or  sat  on  a  bench  in  the 
park.     She  felt  under  such  obligations  when  she  ate 


DIVERGING  ROADS  57 

Mrs.  Campbell's  food  that  several  times  she  did  not 
return  to  the  house  until  after  dark,  when  supper 
would  be  finished.  She  had  to  ring  the  door-bell, 
for  the  front  door  was  kept  locked,  and  each  time 
Mrs.  Campbell  asked  her  sharply  where  she  had 
been.     She  always  answered  truthfully. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  she  received  a  letter  from 
her  mother,  telling  her  to  come  home  at  once  and 
sending  her  five  dollars  for  the  fare.  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell had  written  to  her,  and  she  was  horrified  and 
alarmed. 

Your  father  says  we  might  have  known  it  and  saved  our 
money,  and  I  blame  myself  for  ever  letting  you  go.  I 
don't  say  it  will  be  easy  for  you  here,  short  as  we  are  this 
winter,  but  you  ought  to  be  glad  you  have  a  good  home  to 
come  to  even  if  it  is  n't  very  fine,  and  don't  worry  about 
the  money,  for  your  father  won't  say  a  word.  Just  you 
come  home  right  away.    Lovingly, 

Your  Mother. 

Helen  hated  Mrs.  Campbell.  What  right  had 
that  woman  to  worry  her  mother  ?  Helen  could  get 
along  all  right  by  herself,  and  she  wrote  her  mother 
that  she  could.  She  had  a  job  at  last.  Mr.  Roberts 
had  made  a  place  for  her  in  the  office,  as  a  clerk  at 
five  dollars  a  week.  She  did  not  mention  the  wages 
to  her  mother;  she  said  only  that  she  had  a  job,  and 
her  mother  was  not  to  worry.  She  would  be  making 
more  money  soon  and  could  send  some  home. 

The  letter  had  been  waiting  for  her,  propped  on 


'58  DIVERGING  ROADS 

the  hall  table,  when  she  hurried  in,  eager  to  tell  Mrs. 
Campbell  the  glad  news.  Her  anger  when  she  read 
it  was  obscurely  a  relief.  The  compulsion  to  feel 
gratitude  toward  Mrs.  Campbell  was  lifted  from 
her.  She  wrote  her  answer  and  hastened  to  drop 
it  in  the  corner  mail-box. 

Running  back  to  the  house,  she  met  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell returning  from  a  sewing-circle  meeting.  Mrs. 
Campbell  was  neatly  hatted  and  gloved,  and  the  ex- 
pression in  her  pale  blue  eyes  behind  the  dotted  veil 
suddenly  made  Helen  realize  how  blow-away  she 
looked,  bare-headed,  her  loosened  hair  ruffled  by  the 
breeze,  her  blouse  sagging  under  the  arms.  She 
stood  awkwardly  self-conscious  while  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell unlocked  the  front  door. 

"  Did  you  get  your  mother's  letter  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  got  it." 

"Well,  what  did  she  say?" 

Helen  did  not  answer  that. 

"  I  got  a  job,"  she  said.     Her  breath  came  quickly. 

"  You  have  ?     What  kind  of  job  ?  " 

Helen  told  her.  They  were  in  the  hall  now, 
standing  by  the  golden-oak  hat-rack  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs.  The  children  watched,  wide-eyed,  in  the 
parlor  door. 

Perplexity  and  disgust  struggled  on  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell's face. 

"  You  think  you  're  going  to  live  in  Sacramento 
on  five  dollars  a  week  ?  " 


DIVERGING  ROADS  59 

"  I  'm  going  to.  I  got  to.  I  '11  manage  some- 
how. I  won't  go  home!  "  Helen  cried,  confront- 
ing Mrs.  Campbell  like  an  antagonist. 

"Oh,  I  don't  doubt  you'll  manage!"  Mrs. 
Campbell  said  cuttingly.  She  went  down  the  hall, 
and  the  slam  of  the  dining-room  door  shouted  that 
she  washed  her  hands  of  the  whole  affair. 

She  came  up  the  back  stairs  half  an  hour  later. 
Helen  was  sitting  on  the  bed,  her  bag  packed,  trying 
to  plan  what  to  do.  She  had  only  the  five  dollars. 
It  would  be  two  weeks  before  she  could  get  more 
money  from  the  office.  Mrs.  Campbell  opened  the 
door  without  knocking. 

"  I  'm  going  to  talk  this  over  with  you,"  she  said, 
patient  firmness  in  her  tone.  "  Don't  you  realize 
you  can't  get  a  decent  room  and  anything  to  eat  for 
five  dollars  a  week?  Do  you  think  it 's  right  to  ex- 
pect your  folks  to  support  you,  poor  as  they  are  ?  It 
is  n't  — " 

"  I  don't  expect  them  to !  "     Helen  cried. 

"  As  though  you  did  n't  have  a  good  home  to  go 
back  to,"  Mrs.  Campbell  conveyed  subtly  that  a  well- 
bred  girl  did  not  interrupt  while  an  older  woman 
was  speaking.  "  Now  be  reasonable  about  this, 
my  — 

"  I  won't  go  back,"  Helen  said.  She  lifted  mis- 
erable eyes  to  Mrs.  Campbell's,  and  the  expression 
she  saw  there  reminded  her  of  a  horse  with  his  ears 
laid  back. 


6o  DIVERGING  ROADS 


Then  you  Ve  decided,  I  suppose,  where  you  are 


going?" 

"  No  —  I  don^t  know.  Where  could  I  begin  to 
look  for  a  —  nice  room  that  I  can  live  in  on  my 
wages?  " 

Mrs.  Campbell  exclaimed  impatiently.  Her  al- 
most ruthless  capability  in  dealing  with  situations 
did  not  prepare  her  to  meet  gracefully  one  that  she 
could  not  handle.  Her  voice  grew  colder,  and  the 
smooth  cheeks  beneath  the  smooth,  fair  hair  red- 
dened while  she  continued  to  talk.  Her  arguments, 
her  grudging  attempts  at  persuasion,  her  final  out- 
burst of  unconcealed  anger,  were  futile.  Helen 
would  not  go  home.  She  meant  to  keep  her  job  and 
to  live  on  the  wages. 

"  Well,  then  I  guess  you  '11  have  to  stay  here.  I 
can't  turn  you  out  on  the  streets." 

"  How  much  would  you  charge  for  the  room  ?  " 
said  Helen. 

"  Charge !  "  Helen  flushed  again  at  the  scorn  in 
the  word. 

"  I  could  n't  stay  unless  I  paid  you  something. 
I  'd  have  to  do  that." 

"  Well,  of  all  the  ungrateful  —  !  " 

Tears  came  into  Helen's  eyes.  She  knew  Mrs. 
Campbell  meant  well,  and  though  she  did  not  like 
her,  she  wished  to  thank  her.  But  she  did  not  know 
how  to  do  it  without  yielding  somewhat  to  the  im- 


DIVERGING  ROADS  6i 

placable  force  of  the  older  woman.  She  could  only 
repeat  doggedly  that  she  must  pay  for  the  room. 

She  was  left  shaken,  but  with  a  sense  of  victory 
emphasized  by  Mrs.  Campbell's  inarticulate  exclama- 
tion as  she  went  out.  It  was  arranged  that  Helen 
should  pay  five  dollars  a  month  for  the  room. 

But  the  bitterness  of  living  in  that  house,  on 
terms  which  she  felt  were  charity,  increased  daily. 
She  tried  to  make  as  little  trouble  as  possible,  steal- 
ing in  at  the  back  door  so  that  no  one  would  have 
to  answer  her  ring,  making  her  bed  neatly,  and  slip- 
ping out  early  so  that  she  would  not  meet  any  of  the 
family.  She  spent  her  evenings  at  the  office  or  at 
the  library,  where  she  could  forget  herself  in  books 
and  in  writing  long  letters.  For  some  inexplicable 
reason  this  seemed  to  exasperate  Mrs.  Campbell,  who 
inquired  where  she  had  been  and  did  not  hide  a  be- 
lief that  her  replies  were  lies.  Helen  felt  like  a 
suspected  criminal.  She  would  have  left  the  house 
if  she  could  have  found  another  room  that  she  could 
afford. 

It  was  only  at  the  office  that  she  could  breathe 
freely.  She  worked  from  eight  in  the  morning  to 
six  at  night,  and  then  until  the  office  closed  at  nine 
o'clock  she  could  practise  on  the  telegraph  instru- 
ment behind  the  tables  where  the  real  wires  came 
in.  She  worked  hard  at  it,  for  at  last  she  was  on 
the  road  to  the  little  station  where  she  would  work 


62  DIVERGING  ROADS 

with  Paul.  She  felt  that  she  could  never  be  grate- 
ful enough  to  Mr.  Roberts  for  giving  her  the  chance. 

He  was  very  kind.  Often  he  came  behind  the 
screen  where  she  was  studying  and  talked  to  her  for 
a  long  time.  He  was  surprised  at  first  by  her  work- 
ing so  hard.  He  seemed  to  think  she  had  not  meant 
to  do  it.  But  his  manner  was  so  warmly  friendly 
that  one  day  when  he  took  her  hand,  saying, 
"  What 's  the  big  idea,  Httle  girl  —  keeping  me  off 
like  this  ?  "  she  told  him  about  everything  but  Paul. 
She  told  him  about  the  farm  and  the  mortgage  and 
the  failure  of  the  fruit  crop,  even,  shamefaced, 
about  Mr.  Weeks'  drinking,  and  that  she  did  not 
know  what  she  would  have  done  if  she  had  not  got 
the  job.  She  was  very  grateful  to  him  and  tried  to 
tell  him  so. 

He  said  drily  not  to  bother  about  that,  and  she 
felt  that  she  had  offended  him.  Perhaps  her  story 
had  sounded  as  if  she  were  begging  for  more  money, 
she  thought  with  burning  cheeks.  For  several  days 
he  gave  her  a  great  deal  of  hard  work  to  do  and 
was  cross  when  she  made  mistakes.  She  did  her 
best,  trying  hard  to  please  him,  and  he  was  soon 
very  friendly  again. 

His  was  the  only  friendliness  she  found  to  warm 
her  shivering  spirit,  and  she  became  daily  more 
grateful  to  him  for  it.  Though  she  was  puzzled  by 
his  displays  of  affectionate  interest  in  her  and  his 
sudden  cold  withdrawals  when  she  eagerly  thanked 


DIVERGING  ROADS  63 

him,  this  was  only  part  of  the  bewildering  atmos- 
phere of  the  office,  in  which  she  felt  many  under- 
currents that  she  could  not  understand. 

The  young  operator  with  the  green  eye-shade,  for 
instance,  always  regarded  her  with  a  cynical  and 
slightly  amused  eye,  which  she  resented  without 
knowing  why.  When  she  laid  messages  beside  his 
key,  he  covered  her  hand  with  his  if  he  could,  and 
sometimes  when  she  sat  working  he  came  and  put  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder.  She  was  always  angry,  for 
she  felt  contempt  in  his  attitude  toward  her,  but  she 
did  not  know  how  to  show  her  resentment  without 
making  too  much  of  the  incidents. 

"  Mr.  McCormick,  leave  me  alone !  "  she  said  im- 
patiently.    "  I  want  to  work." 

"  Just  what  is  the  game?  "  he  drawled. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked,  reddening  un- 
der that  cool,  satirical  gaze.  He  looked  at  her, 
grinning  until  she  felt  only  that  she  hated  him.  Or 
sometimes  he  said  something  like :  "  Oh,  well,  I  'm 
not  butting  in.  It 's  up  to  you  and  the  boss,"  and 
strolled  away,  whistling. 

Much  looking  at  life  from  the  back-door  keyhole 
of  the  telegraph-operator  's  point  of  view  had  made 
him  blase  and  wearily  worldly-wise  at  twenty-two. 
He  knew  that  every  pretty  face  was  moulded  on  a 
skeleton,  and  was  convinced  that  all  lives  contained 
one.  Only  virtue  could  have  surprised  him,  and  he 
could    not    have    been    convinced    that    it    existed. 


64  DIVERGING  ROADS 

When  he  was  on  duty  in  the  long,  slow  evenings, 
Helen,  practising  diligently  behind  her  screen,  heard 
him  singing  thoughtfully : 

"Life's  a  funny  proposition  after  all; 

Just  why  we  're  here  and  what  it 's  all  about , 

It 's  a  problem  that  has  driven  many  brainy  men  to  drink, 

It 's  a  problem  that  they  've  never  figured  out." 

Life  seemed  simple  enough  to  Helen.  She  would 
be  a  telegraph-operator  soon,  earning  as  much  as 
fifty  dollars  a  month.  She  could  repay  the  hundred 
dollars  then,  buy  some  new  clothes,  and  have  plenty 
to  eat.  She  would  try  to  get  a  job  at  the  Ripley  sta- 
tion,—  always  in  the  back  of  her  mind  was  the 
thought  of  Paul, —  and  she  planned  the  furnishing 
of  housekeeping  rooms,  and  thought  of  making  cur- 
tains and  embroidering  centerpieces. 

It  was  spring  when  he  wrote  that  he  was  coming 
to  spend  a  day  in  Sacramento.  He  was  going  to 
Masonville  to  help  his  mother  move  to  Ripley.  On 
the  way  he  would  stop  and  see  Helen. 

Helen,  in  happy  excitement,  thought  of  her 
clothes.  She  must  have  something  new  to  wear 
when  they  met.  Paul  must  see  in  the  first  glance 
how  much  she  had  changed,  how  much  she  had  im- 
proved. She  had  not  been  able  to  save  anything, 
but  she  must,  she  must  have  new  clothes.  Two  days 
of  worried  planning  brought  her  courage  to  the 
point  of  approaching  Mr.  Roberts  and  asking  him 


DIVERGING  ROADS  65 

for  her  next  month's  salary  in  advance.  Next 
month's  food  was  a  problem  she  could  meet  later. 
Mr.  Roberts  was  very  kind  about  it. 

"Money?  Of  course! '' he  said.  He  took  a  bill 
from  his  own  pocket-book.  "  We  '11  have  to  see 
about  your  getting  more  pretty  soon."  Her  heart 
leaped.  He  put  the  bill  in  her  palm,  closing  his  hand 
around  hers.     "  Going  to  be  good  to  me  if  I  do?  " 

"  Oh,  I  'd  do  anything  in  the  world  I  could  for 
you,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  gratefully.  "  You  're 
so  good!  Thank  you  ever  so  much."  His  look 
struck  her  as  odd,  but  a  customer  came  in  at  that 
moment,  and  in  taking  the  message  she  forgot  about 
it. 

She  went  out  at  noon  and  bought  a  white,  pleated, 
voile  skirt  for  five  dollars,  a  China-silk  waist  for 
three-ninety-five,  and  a  white,  straw  sailor.  And 
that  afternoon  McCormick,  with  his  cynical  smile, 
handed  her  a  note  that  had  come  over  the  wire  for 
her.  "  Arrive  eight  ten  Sunday  morning.  Meet 
me.     Paul." 

She  was  so  radiantly  self-absorbed  all  the  after- 
noon that  she  hardly  saw  the  thundercloud  gather- 
ing in  Mr.  Roberts'  eyes,  and  she  went  back  to  her 
room  that  evening  so  confidently  happy  that  she  rang 
the  door-bell  without  her  usual  qualm.  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell's lips  were  drawn  into  a  tight,  thin  line. 

"  There  's  some  packages  for  you,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  I  know.     I  bought  some  clothes.     Thank 


66  DIVERGING  ROADS 

you  for  taking  them  in,"  said  Helen.  She  felt 
friendly  even  toward  Mrs.  Campbell.  "  A  white, 
voile  skirt,  and  a  silk  waist,  and  a  hat.  Would  — 
would  you  like  to  see  them?'' 

"  No,  thank  you ! "  said  Mrs.  Campbell,  icily. 
Going  up  the  stairs,  Helen  heard  her  speaking  to 
her  husband.  "  *  I  bought  some  clothes,'  she  says, 
bold  as  brass.     Clothes !  " 

Helen  wondered,  hurt,  how  people  could  be  so 
unkind.  She  knew  that  the  clothes  were  an  ex- 
travagance, but  she  did  want  them  so  badly,  for 
Paul,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  worked  hard 
enough  to  deserve  them.  Besides,  Mr.  Roberts  had 
said  that  she  might  get  a  raise. 

She  was  dressed  and  creeping  noiselessly  out  of 
the  house  at  seven  o'clock  the  next  morning.  The 
spring  dawn  was  coming  rosily  into  the  city  after 
a  night  of  rain;  the  odor  of  the  freshly  washed 
lawns  and  flower-beds  was  delicious,  and  birds  sang 
in  the  trees.  The  flavor  of  the  cool,  sweet  air  and 
the  w^armth  of  the  sunshine  mingled  with  her  joyful 
sense  of  youth  and  coming  happiness.  She  looked 
very  well,  she  thought,  watching  her  slim  white  re- 
flection in  the  shop-windows. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHEN  the  train  pulled  into  the  big,  dingy  sta- 
tion Helen  had  been  waiting  for  some  time, 
her  pulses  fluttering  with  excitement.  But  her  self- 
confidence  deserted  her  when  she  saw  the  crowds 
pouring  from  the  cars.  She  shrank  back  into  the 
waiting-room  doorway;  and  she  saw  Paul  before  his 
eager  eyes  found  her. 

It  was  a  shock  to  find  that  he  had  changed,  too. 
Something  boyish  was  gone  from  his  face,  and  his 
self-confident  walk,  his  prosperous  appearance  in  a 
new  suit,  gave  her  the  chill  sensation  that  she  was 
about  to  meet  a  stranger.  She  braced  herself  for 
the  effort,  and  when  they  shook  hands  she  felt  that 
hers  was  cold. 

"  You  're  looking  well,"  she  said  shyly. 

"  Well,  so  are  you,"  he  answered.  They  walked 
down  the  platform  together,  and  she  saw  that  he 
carried  a  new  suitcase,  and  that  even  his  shoes  were 
new  and  shining.  However,  these  details  were 
somewhat  offset  by  her  perception  that  he  was  feel- 
ing awkward,  too. 

"  Where  shall  we  go  ?  "  They  hesitated,  looking 
at  each  other,  and  in  their  smile  the  strangeness  van- 
ished. 


68  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  I  don't  care.  Anywhere,  if  you  're  along,"  he 
said.  "  Oh,  Helen,  it  sure  is  great  to  see  you  again ! 
You  look  like  a  million  dollars,  too."  His  approv- 
ing eye  was  upon  her  new  clothes. 

"  I  'm  glad  you  like  them,"  she  said,  radiant. 
"  That 's  an  awfully  nice  suit,  Paul."  Happiness 
came  back  to  her  in  a  flood  and  putting  out  her  hand, 
she  picked  a  bit  of  thread  from  his  dear  sleeve. 
"  Well,  where  shall  we  go  ?  " 

"  We  '11  get  something  to  eat  first,"  he  said  prac- 
tically. "  I  'm  about  starved,  are  n't  you  ?  "  She 
had  not  thought  of  eating. 

They  breakfasted  in  a  little  restaurant  on  waffles 
and  sausages  and  coffee.  The  hot  food  was  de- 
licious, and  the  waiter  in  the  soiled  white  apron 
grinned  understandingly  while  he  served  them. 
Paul  gave  him  fifteen  cents,  in  an  off-hand  manner, 
and  she  thrilled  at  his  careless  prodigality  and  his 
air  of  knowing  his  way  about. 

The  whole  long  day  lay  before  them,  bright  with 
limitless  possibilities.  They  left  the  suitcase  with 
the  cashier  of  the  restaurant  and  walked  slowly 
down  the  street,  embarrassed  by  the  riches  of  time 
that  were  theirs.  Helen  suggested  that  they  walk 
awhile  in  the  capitol  grounds ;  she  had  supposed  they 
would  do  that,  and  perhaps  in  the  afternoon  enjoy 
a  car-ride  to  Oak  Park.  But  Paul  dismissed  these 
simple  pleasures  with  a  word. 

"  Nothing  like  that,"  he  said.     "  I  want  a  real 


DIVERGING  ROADS  69 

celebration,  a  regular  blow-out.  I  've  been  saving 
up  for  it  a  long  time."  He  struggled  with  this 
conscience.  "  It  won't  do  any  harm  to  miss  church 
one  Sunday.     Let's  take  a  boat  down  the  river." 

"Oh,  Paul!"  She  was  dazzled.  "But  — I 
don't  know  —  won't  it  be  awfully  expensive?  " 

"  I  don't  care  how  much  it  costs,"  he  replied  reck- 
lessly.    "  Come  on.     It  '11  be  fun." 

They  went  down  the  shabby  streets  toward  the 
river,  and  even  the  dingy  tenements  and  broken  side- 
walks of  the  Japanese  quarter  seemed  to  them  to 
have  a  holiday  air.  They  laughed  about  the  queer 
little  shops  and  the  restaurant  windows,  where 
electric  lights  still  burned  in  the  clear  daylight  over 
pallid  pies  and  strange-looking  cakes.  Helen  must 
stop  to  speak  to  the  straight-haired,  flat-faced  Japa- 
nese babies  who  sat  stolidly  on  the  curbs,  looking  at 
her  with  enigmatic,  slant  eyes,  and  she  saw  romance 
in  the  groups  of  tall  Hindoo  laborers,  with  their 
bearded,  black  faces  and  gaily  colored  turbans. 

It  was  like  going  into  a  foreign  land  together,  she 
said,  and  even  Paul  was  momentarily  caught  by  the 
enchantment  she  saw  in  it  all,  though  he  did  not 
conceal  his  detestation  of  these  foreigners. 
"  We  're  going  to  see  to  it  we  don't  have  them  in 
our  town,"  he  said,  already  with  the  air  of  a  pro- 
prietor in  Ripley. 

"  Now  this  is  something  like !  "  he  exclaimed  when 
he  had  helped  Helen  across  the  gang-plank  and  de- 


70  DIVERGING  ROADS 

posited  her  safely  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer. 
Helen,  pressing  his  arm  with  her  fingers,  was  too 
happy  to  speak.  The  boat  was  filling  with  people  in 
holiday  clothes;  everywhere  about  her  was  the  ex- 
citing stir  of  departure,  calls,  commands,  the  thump 
of  boxes  being  loaded  on  the  deck  below.  A  whistle 
sounded  hoarsely,  the  engines  were  starting,  send- 
ing a  thrill  through  the  very  planks  beneath  her 
feet. 

"  We  'd  better  get  a  good  place  up  in  front,"  said 
Paul.  He  took  her  through  the  magnificence  of  a 
large  room  furnished  with  velvet  chairs,  past  a 
glimpse  of  shining  white  tables  and  white-clad  wait- 
ers, to  a  seat  whence  they  could  gaze  down  the 
yellow  river.  She  was  appalled  by  his  ease  and 
assurance.  She  looked  at  him  with  an  admiration 
which  she  would  not  allow  to  lessen  even  when  the 
boat  edged  out  into  the  stream  and,  turning,  revealed 
that  he  had  led  her  to  the  stern  deck. 

Her  enthusiastic  suggestion  that  they  explore  the 
boat  aided  Paul's  attempt  to  conceal  his  chagrin, 
and  she  listened  enthralled  to  his  explanations  of  all 
they  saw.  He  estimated  the  price  of  the  crates  of 
vegetables  and  chickens  piled  on  the  lower  deck, 
on  their  way  to  the  city  from  the  upper  river  farms. 
It  was  his  elaborate  description  of  the  engines  that 
caught  the  attention  of  a  grimy  engineer  who  had 
emerged  from  the  noisy  depths  for  a  breath  of  air, 
and  the  engineer,  turning  on  them  a  quizzically 


DIVERGING  ROADS  71 

friendly  gaze,  was  easily  persuaded  to  take  them 
into  the  engine-room. 

Helen  could  not  understand  his  explanations,  but 
she  was  interested  because  Paul  was,  and  found  her 
own  thrill  in  the  discovery  of  a  dim  tank  half  filled 
with  flopping  fish,  scooped  from  the  river  and  flung 
there  by  the  paddle  wheel.  "  We  take  'em  home 
and  eat  'em,  miss,"  said  the  engineer,  and  she  pic- 
tured their  cool  lives  in  the  green  river,  and  the  city 
supper-tables  at  which  they  would  be  eaten.  She 
was  fascinated  by  the  multitudinous  intricacies  of 
life,  even  on  that  one  small  boat. 

It  was  a  disappointment  to  find,  when  they  re- 
turned again  to  the  upper  decks,  that  they  could  see 
nothing  but  green  levee  banks  on  each  side  of  the 
river.  But  this  led  to  an  even  more  exciting  discov- 
ery, for  venturesomely  climbing  a  slender  iron  ladder 
they  saw  beyond  the  western  levee  an  astounding 
and  incredible  stretch  of  water  where  land  should  be. 
Their  amazement  emboldened  Paul  to  tap  on  the 
glass  wall  of  a  small  room  beside  them,  in  which 
they  saw  an  old  man  peacefully  smoking  his  pipe. 
He  proved  to  be  the  pilot,  who  explained  that  it  was 
flood  water  they  saw,  and  who  let  them  squeeze  into 
his  tiny  quarters  and  stay  while  he  told  long  tales  of 
early  days  on  the  river,  of  floods  in  which  whole  set- 
tlements were  swept  away  at  night,  of  women  and 
children  rescued  from  floating  roofs,  of  cows  found 
drowned  in  tree-tops,  and  droves  of  hogs  that  cut 


72  DIVERGING  ROADS 

their  own  throats  with  their  hoofs  while  swimming. 
Listening  to  him  while  the  boat  slowly  chugged  down 
the  curves  of  the  sunlit  river,  Helen  felt  the  romance 
of  living,  the  color  of  all  the  millions  of  obscure 
lives  in  the  world. 

"  Is  n't  everything  interesting !  "  she  cried,  giving 
Paul's  arm  an  excited  little  squeeze  as  they  walked 
along  the  main  deck  again.  "  Oh,  I  'd  like  to  live 
all  the  lives  that  ever  were  lived!  Think  of  those 
women  and  the  miners  and  people  in  cities  and 
everything !  " 

**  I  expect  you  'd  find  it  pretty  inconvenient  be- 
fore you  got  through,"  Paul  said.  "  Gee,  but 
you  're  awfully  pretty,  Helen,"  he  added  irrele- 
vantly, and  they  forgot  everything  except  that  they 
were  together. 

They  had  to  get  off  at  Lancaster  in  order  to  catch 
the  afternoon  boat  back  to  Sacramento.  There  was 
just  time  to  eat  on  board,  Paul  said,  and  overruling 
her  flurried  protests  he  led  her  into  the  white-painted 
dining-room.  The  smooth  linen,  the  shining  silver, 
and  the  imposing  waiters  confused  her;  she  was 
able  to  see  nothing  but  the  prices  on  the  elaborate 
menu-cards,  and  they  were  terrifying.  Paul  himself 
was  startled  by  them,  and  she  could  see  worried 
calculation  in  his  eyes.  She  felt  that  she  should 
pay  her  share;  she  was  working,  too,  and  earning 
money.  The  memory  of  the  of^ce,  the  advance  she 
had  drawn  on  her  wages,  her  uncomfortable  ex- 


DIVERGING  ROADS  73 

istence  in  Mrs.  Campbeirs  house,  passed  through 
her  mind  Hke  a  shadow.  But  it  was  gone  in  an 
instant,  and  she  sat  happily  at  the  white  table,  eat- 
ing small  delicious  sandwiches  and  drinking  milk, 
smiling  across  immaculate  linen  at  Paul.  For  a 
moment  she  played  with  the  fancy  that  it  was  a 
honeymoon  trip,  and  a  thrill  ran  along  her  nerves. 

They  were  at  Lancaster  before  they  knew  it. 
There  was  a  moment  of  flurried  haste,  and  they 
stood  on  the  levee,  watching  the  boat  push  off  and 
disappear  beyond  a  wall  of  willows.  A  few  loung- 
ing Japanese  looked  at  them  with  expressionless, 
slant  eyes,  pretending  not  to  understand  Paul's  in- 
quiries until  his  increasing  impatience  brought  from 
them  in  clear  English  the  information  that  the  after- 
noon boat  was  late.  It  might  be  along  about  five 
o'clock,  they  thought. 

"  Well,  that  '11  get  us  back  in  time  for  my  train," 
Paul  decided.     "  Let 's  look  around  a  little." 

The  levee  road  was  a  tunnel  of  willow-boughs, 
floored  with  soft  sand  in  which  their  feet  made  no 
sound.  They  walked  in  an  enchanted  stillness, 
through  pale  light,  green  as  sea-water,  drowsy, 
warm,  and  scented  with  the  breath  of  unseen  flow- 
ers. Through  the  thin  wall  of  leaves  they  caught 
glimpses  of  the  broad  river,  the  yellow  waves  of 
which  gave  back  the  color  of  the  sky  in  flashes  of 
metallic  blue.  And  suddenly,  stepping  out  of  the 
perfumed  shadow,  they  saw  the  orchards.     A  sea  of 


74  DIVERGING  ROADS 

petals,  fragile,  translucent,  unearthly  as  waves  of 
pure  rosy  light,  rippled  at  their  feet. 

The  loveliness  of  it  filled  Helen's  eyes  with  tears. 
"Oh!''  she  said,  softly.  "Oh  — Paul!"  Her 
hand  went  out  blindly  toward  him.  One  more 
breath  of  magic  would  make  the  moment  perfect. 
She  did  not  know  what  she  wanted,  but  her  whole 
being  was  a  longing  for  it.     "  Oh,  Paul !  " 

"  Pears,  by  Jove ! "  he  cried.  "  Hundreds  of 
acres,  Helen !  They  're  the  tops  of  trees !  We  're 
looking  down  at  'em!  Look  at  the  river.  Why, 
the  land  's  fifteen  feet  below  water-level.  Did  you 
ever  see  anything  like  it?  "  Excitement  shook  his 
voice.  "  There  must  be  a  way  to  get  down  there. 
I  want  to  see  it !  "  He  almost  ran  along  the  edge  of 
the  levee,  Helen  had  to  hurry  to  keep  beside  him. 
She  did  not  know  why  she  should  be  hurt  because 
Paul  was  interested  in  the  orchards.  She  was  the 
first  to  laugh  about  going  down-stairs  to  farm  when 
they  found  the  wooden  steps  on  the  side  of  the  levee. 

But  she  felt  rebuffed  and  almost  resentful.  She 
listened  abstractedly  to  Paul's  talk  about  irrigation 
and  the  soil.  He  crumbled  handfuls  of  it  between 
his  fingers  while  they  walked  between  the  orchard 
rows,  and  his  opinion  led  to  a  monologue  on  the 
soil  around  Ripley  and  the  fight  the  farmers  were 
making  to  get  water  on  it.  He  was  conservative 
about  the  project;  it  might  pay,  and  it  might  not 


DIVERGING  ROADS  75 

But  if  It  did,  a  man  who  bought  some  cheap  land 
now  would  make  a  good  thing  out  of  it.  It  oc- 
curred to  her  suddenly  to  wonder  about  the  girls 
in  Ripley.  There  must  be  some;  Paul  had  never 
written  about  them.  She  thought  about  it  for  some 
time  before  she  was  able  to  bring  the  talk  to  the 
point  where  she  could  ask  about  them. 

"Girls?"  Paul  said.  "Sure,  there  are.  I 
don't  pay  much  attention  to  them,  though.  I  see 
them  in  church,  and  they  're  at  the  Aid  Society  sup- 
pers, of  course.  They  seem  pretty  foolish  to  me. 
Why,  I  never  noticed  whether  they  were  pretty,  or 
not."  Enlightment  dawned  upon  him.  "  I  '11  tell 
you;  they  don't  seem  to  talk  about  anything  much. 
You  're  the  only  girl  I  ever  struck  that  I  could  really 
talk  to.  I  —  I  've  been  awfully  lonesome,  thinking 
about  you." 

"Really  truly?"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him. 
The  sunlight  fell  across  her  white  dress,  and  stray 
pink  petals  fluttered  slowly  downward  around  her. 
"  Have  you  really  been  lonesome  for  me,  too  ?  " 
She  swayed  toward  him,  ever  so  little,  and  he  put  his 
arms  around  her. 

He  did  love  her.  A  great  contentment  flowed 
through  her.  To  be  in  his  arms  again  was  to  be 
safe  and  rested  and  warm  after  ages  of  racking 
effort  in  the  cold.  He  was  thinking  only  of  her 
now.     His  arms  crushed  her  against  him;  she  felt 


'j^^  DIVERGING  ROADS 

the  roughness  of  his  coat  under  her  cheek.  He 
was  stammering  love-words,  kissing  her  hair,  her 
cheeks,  her  lips. 

**  Oh,  Paul,  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you ! " 
she  said,  her  arms  around  his  neck. 

Much  later  they  found  a  little  nook  under  the 
willows  on  the  levee  bank  and  sat  there  with  the 
river  rippling  at  their  feet,  his  arm  around  her, 
her  head  on  his  shoulder.  They  talked  a  little  then. 
Paul  told  her  again  all  about  Ripley,  but  she  did 
not  mind.  "  When  we  're  married  — "  said  Paul, 
and  the  rest  of  the  sentence  did  not  matter. 

"  And  I  'm  going  to  help  you,"  she  said.  "  Be- 
cause I  'm  telegraphing  now,  too.  I  '11  be  earning 
as  much  —  almost  as  much,  as  you  do.  We  can 
live  over  the  depot  — " 

"We  will  not!"  said  Paul.  "We'll  have  a 
house.  I  don't  know  that  I  'm  crazy  about  my  wife 
working." 

"  Oh,  but  I  do  want  to  help !  A  house  would  be 
nice.     Oh,  Paul,  with  rosebushes  in  the  yard ! " 

"  And  a  horse  and  buggy,  so  we  can  go  riding 
Sunday  afternoons." 

"  Besides,  if  I  'm  making  money  — " 

"  I  know.     We  would  n't  have  to  wait  so  long." 

She  flushed.  It  was  what  she  meant,  but  she  di3 
not  want  to  think  so.     "  I  did  n't  —  I  don't  — " 

"  Of  course  there 's  mother.  And  I  want  to  feel 
that  I  can  support — " 


DIVERGING  ROADS  ^^ 

She  felt  the  magic  departing. 

"  Never  mind !  "  The  tiniest  of  cuddling  move- 
ments brought  his  arms  tight  around  her  again. 

"  Oh,  sweetheart,  sweetheart,  you  're  worth  it !  " 
he  cried.     "  I  'd  wait  for  you !  " 

They  were  startled  when  they  noticed  the  shadows 
under  the  trees.  They  had  not  dreamed  it  was  so 
late.  She  smoothed  her  hair  and  pinned  on  her  hat 
with  trembling  fingers,  and  they  raced  for  the  land- 
ing. The  river  was  an  empty  stretch  of  dirty  gray 
lapping  dusky  banks.  There  was  no  one  at  the 
landing. 

"  It  must  be  way  after  five  o'clock.  I  wish  I  had 
a  watch.  The  boat  could  n't  have  gone  by  without 
our  seeing  it?  '*  The  suggestion  drained  the  color 
from  their  cheeks.  They  looked  at  each  other  with 
wide  eyes.  "  It  could  n't  have  possibly  I  Let 's 
ask.'* 

The  little  town  was  no  more  than  half  a  dozen 
old  wooden  buildings  facing  the  levee.  A  store,  un- 
lighted  and  locked,  a  harness  shop,  also  locked,  two 
dark  warehouses,  a  saloon.  She  waited  in  the 
shadow  of  it  while  he  went  in  to  inquire.  He  came 
out  almost  immediately. 

"  No,  the  boat  has  n't  gone.  They  don't  know 
when  it  '11  get  here.  No  one  there  but  a  few  Japan- 
ese." 

They  walked  uncertainly  back  to  the  landing  and 
stood  gazing  at  the  darkening  river.     "  I  suppose 


78  DIVERGING  ROADS 

there  's  no  knowing  when  it  will  get  here  ?  There  *s 
no  other  way  of  getting  back?" 

"  No,  there  's  no  railroad.  I  hazre  got  you  into 
a  scrape!  " 

"  It 's  all  right.  It  was  n't  your  fault,"  she  has- 
tened to  say. 

They  walked  up  and  down,  waiting.  Darkness 
came  slowly  down  upon  them.  The  river  breeze 
grew  colder.     Stars  appeared. 

"Chilly?" 

"  A  little,"  she  said  through  chattering  teeth. 

He  took  off  his  coat  and  wrapped  it  around  her, 
despite  her  protests.  They  found  a  sheltered  place 
on  the  bank  and  huddled  together,  shivering.  A 
delicious  sleepiness  stole  over  her,  and  the  lap-lap 
of  the  water,  the  whispering  of  the  leaves,  the 
warmth  of  Paul's  shoulder  under  her  cheek,  all  be- 
came like  a  dream. 

"Comfortable,  dear?" 

" Mmmmhuh,"  she  murmured.     "You?" 

"  You  bet  your  life !  "  She  roused  a  little  to 
meet  his  kiss.     The  night  became  dreamlike  again. 

"Helen?" 

"What!" 

"  Seems  to  me  we  've  been  here  a  long  time. 
What  '11  we  do?     We  can't  stay  here  till  morning." 

"  I  don't  —  know  —  why  not.  All  night  —  un- 
der the  stars — " 


DIVERGING  ROADS  79 

"  But  listen.  What  if  the  boat  comes  by  and 
does  n't  stop  ?    There  is  n't  any  Hght." 

She  sat  up  then,  rubbing  the  drowsiness  from  her 
eyes. 

"  Well,  let 's  make  a  fire.     Got  any  matches?  " 

He  always  carried  them,  to  light  the  switch-lamps 
in  Ripley.  They  hunted  dry  branches  and  drift- 
wood and  coaxed  a  flickering  blaze  alive.  "  It 's 
like  being  stranded  on  a  desert  island !  **  she  laughed. 
His  eyes  adored  her,  crouching  with  disheveled  hair 
in  the  leaping  yellow  light.  "  You  're  certainly 
game,"  he  said.  "I  —  I  think  you  're  the  pluckiest 
girl  in  the  world.  And  when  I  think  what  a  fool  I 
am  to  get  you  into  this !  " 

There  came  like  an  echo  down  the  river  the  hoarse 
whistle  of  the  boat.  A  moment  later  it  was  upon 
them,  looming  white  and  gigantic,  its  lights  cut- 
ting swaths  in  the  darkness  as  it  edged  in  to  the 
landing.  Struggling  to  straighten  her  hat,  to  tuck 
up  her  hair,  to  brush  the  sand  from  her  skirt,  Helen 
stumbled  aboard  with  Paul's  hand  steadying  her. 

The  blaze  of  the  salon  lights  hurt  their  eyes,  but 
warmth  and  security  relaxed  tired  muscles.  The 
room  was  empty,  its  carpet  swept,  the  velvet  chairs 
neatly  in  place. 

"  Funny,  I  thought  there  'd  be  a  lot  of  passen- 
gers," Paul  wondered  aloud.  He  found  a  cushion, 
tucked  it  behind  Helen's  head,  and  sat  down  beside 


8o  DIVERGING  ROADS 

her.     "  Well,  we  're  all  right  now.     We  '11  be  in 
Sacramento  pretty  soon." 

"  Don't  let 's  think  about  it,"  she  said  with  quiver- 
ing lips.     "  I  hate  to  have  it  all  end,  such  a  lovely 
day.     It  '11  be  such  a  long  time  — " 
'     He  held  her  hand  tightly. 

"  Not  so  awfully  long.  I  'm  not  going  to  stand 
for  it."  He  spoke  firmly,  but  his  eyes  were  troubled. 
She  did  not  answer,  and  they  sat  looking  at  the  fu- 
ture while  the  boat  jolted  on  toward  the  moment 
of  their  parting. 

'*  Damn  being  poor !  "  The  word  startled  her  as 
a  blow  would  have  done.  Paul,  so  sincerely  and 
humbly  a  church  member  —  Paul  swearing !  He 
went  on  without  a  pause.  "  If  I  had  a  little  money, 
if  I  only  had  a  little  money !  What  right  has  it  got 
to  make  such  a  difference?  Oh,  Helen,  you  don't 
know  how  I  want  you !  " 

*'  Paul,  Paul  dear,  you  must  n't !  "  Her  hand  was 
crushed  against  his  face,  his  shoulders  shook.  She 
drew  his  dear,  tousled  head  against  her  shoulder. 

"  Don't,  dear,  don't !     Please." 

He  pushed  away  from  her  and  got  up.  She  let 
him  go,  shielding  his  embarrassment  even  from  her 
own  eyes.  "  I  seem  to  be  making  a  fool  of  myself 
generally,"  he  said  shakily.  He  walked  about  the 
room,  looking  with  an  appearance  of  interest  at  the 
pictures  on  the  walls.  *'  It 's  funny  there  are  n't 
more  people  on  board,"  he  said  conversationally 


DIVERGING  ROADS  8i 

after  a  while.  "  Well,  I  guess  I  '11  go  see  what  time 
we  get  in."  He  came  back  five  minutes  later,  an 
odd  expression  on  his  face. 

"  Look  here,  Helen,"  he  said  gruffly.  "  We  won't 
get  in  for  hours.  Something  wrong  with  the  en- 
gines. They  're  only  making  half  time.  I  —  ah  — 
I  don't  know  why  I  did  n't  think  of  it  before. 
You  've  got  to  work  to-morrow  and  all.  The 
man  suggested — " 

"  Well,  for  goodness'  sake,  suggested  what?  " 

"  Everybody  else  has  berths,"  he  said.  **  You 
better  let  me  get  you  one,  because  there  's  no  sense 
in  your  sitting  up  all  night.  There  's  no  knowing 
when  we  '11  get  in." 

"  But,  Paul,  I  hate  to  have  you  spend  so  much.  I 
could  sleep  a  little  right  here."  A  vision  of  the 
office  went  through  her  mind,  and  she  saw  herself, 
sleepy-eyed,  struggling  to  get  messages  into  the 
right  envelopes  and  trying  to  manage  the  unman- 
ageable messenger-boys.  She  was  tired.  But  it 
would  be  awfully  expensive,  no  doubt.  "  And  be- 
sides, I  'd  rather  stay  here  with  you,"  she  said. 

"  So  would  I.  But  we  might  as  well  be  sensible. 
You  've  got  to  work,  and  I  'd  probably  go  to  sleep, 
too.     Come  on,  let 's  see  how  much  it  is,  anyhow." 

They  found  the  right  place  after  wandering  twice 
around  the  boat.  A  weary  man  sat  behind  the  half- 
door,  adding  up  a  column  of  figures.  "  Berths  ? 
Sure.     Outside,  of  course.     One  left.     Dollar  and 


82  DIVERGING  ROADS 

a  half."  His  expectation  brought  the  money,  as  if 
automatically,  from  Paul's  pocket.  He  came  out, 
yawning,  a  key  with  a  dangling  tag  in  his  hand. 
"  This  way." 

They  followed  him  down  the  corridor.  Matters 
seemed  to  be  taken  from  their  hands.  He  stepped 
out  on  the  dark  deck. 

"  Careful  there,  better  give  your  wife  a  hand  over 
those  ropes,"  he  cautioned  over  his  shoulder,  and 
they  heard  the  sound  of  a  key  in  a  lock.  An  ob- 
long of  light  appeared;  he  stepped  out  again  to  let 
them  pass  him.  They  went  in.  "  There  's  towels. 
Everything  all  right,  I  guess,"  he  said  cheerfully. 
"  Good-night." 

Their  eyes  met  for  one  horrified  second.  Embar- 
rassment covered  them  both  like  a  flame.  "I  — 
Helen !  You  don't  think  —  ?  "  They  swayed  un- 
certainly in  the  narrow  space  between  berths  and 
wash-stand.  Did  the  boat  jolt  so  or  was  it  the 
beating  of  her  heart? 

"  Paul,  did  you  hear?     How  could  — ?  " 

"  I  guess  I  better  go  now,"  he  said.  He  fumbled 
with  the  door.     **  Good-night." 

"  Good-night."  She  felt  suddenly  forlorn.  But 
he  was  not  gone.  "  Helen?  It  might  be  true.  We 
might  be  married !  " 

She  clung  to  him. 

"  We  can't !  We  could  n't !  Oh,  Paul,  I  love  you 
so!" 


DIVERGING  ROADS  83 

"  We  can  be  married  —  we  will  be  —  just  as  soon 
as  we  get  to  Sacramento."  His  kisses  smothered 
her.  "  The  very  first  thing  in  the  morning !  We  '11 
manage  somehow.  I  '11  always  love  you  just  as 
much.  Helen,  what 's  the  matter  ?  Look  at  me. 
Darling!" 

"  We  can't,"  she  gasped.  "  I  'd  be  spoiling  every- 
thing for  you.  Your  mother  and  me  and  everything 
on  your  hands,  and  you  're  just  getting  started. 
You  'd  hate  me  after  a  while.     No,  no,  no !  '* 

They  stumbled  apart. 

"  What  am  I  saying?  "  he  said  hoarsely,  and  she 
turned  away  from  him,  hiding  her  face. 

A  rush  of  cold  moist  air  blew  in  upon  her  from 
the  open  doorway.  He  was  gone.  She  got  the 
door  shut,  and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  berth. 
A  cool  breeze  flowed  in  like  water  through  the  shut- 
ters of  the  windows;  she  felt  the  throbbing  of  the 
engines.  Even  through  her  closed  lids  she  could 
not  bear  the  light,  and  after  a  while  she  turned 
it  out,  trembling,  and  lay  open-eyed  in  the  darkness. 

The  stopping  of  the  boat  struck  her  aching  nerves 
like  a  blow.  She  sat  up,  neither  asleep  nor  awake, 
pushing  her  hair  back  from  a  face  that  seemed  sod- 
den and  lifeless.  A  pale  twilight  filled  the  state- 
room. She  smoothed  her  hair,  straightened  her 
crumpled  dress  as  well  as  she  could,  and  went  out  on 
the  deck.     The  boat  lay  at  the  Sacramento  landing. 

A  few  feet  away  Paul  was  leaning  upon  the  rail- 


84  DIVERGING  ROADS 

ing,  his  face  pale  and  haggard  in  the  cold  light.  As 
she  went  toward  him  the  events  of  the  night  danced 
fantastically  through  her  brain,  as  grotesque  and 
feverish  as  images  in  a  dream. 

"  You  don't  hate  me,  do  you,  Helen?  "  he  pleaded 
hopelessly. 

"  Of  course  not,"  she  said.  Through  her  weari- 
ness she  felt  a  stirring  of  pity.  For  the  first  time 
in  her  life  she  told  herself  to  smile,  and  did  it. 
"  We  'd  better  be  getting  off,  had  n't  we?  " 

The  grayness  of  dawn  was  in  the  air,  paling  the 
street-lights.  A  few  workmen  passed  them,  plod- 
ding stolidly,  carrying  lunch-pails  and  tools ;  a  bak- 
er's wagon  rattled  by,  awakening  loud  echoes.  She 
tried  to  comfort  Paul,  whose  talk  was  one  long  self- 
reproach. 

He  hoped  she  would  not  get  into  a  row  with  the 
folks  where  she  stayed.  If  she  did,  she  must  let 
him  know ;  he  would  n't  stand  for  anything  like  that. 
She  could  reach  him  in  Masonville  till  Saturday; 
then  he  would  come  down  again  on  his  way  home. 
He  had  n't  thought  he  could  stop  on  the  way  back, 
but  he  would.  He  'd  be  worried  about  her  until  he 
saw  her  again  and  was  sure  everything  was  all  right. 
He  had  been  an  awful  boob  not  to  be  sure  about  the 
boat ;  he  'd  never  forgive  himself  if  — 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  broke  off.  She  had  turned  to 
look  after  a  young  man  who  passed  them.  The  mo- 
tion was  almost  automatic ;  she  had  hardly  seen  the 


DIVERGING  ROADS  85 

man  and  not  until  he  was  past  did  her  tired  mind 
register  an  impression  of  a  cynically  smiling 
eye. 

"  Nothing,"  she  said.  She  had  been  right ;  it 
was  McCormick.  But  it  would  require  too  much 
effort  to  talk  about  him. 

The  blinds  of  Mrs.  CampbeU's  house  were  still 
down  when  they  reached  it.  The  tight  roll  of  the 
morning  paper  lay  on  the  porch.  She  would  have  to 
ring,  of  course,  to  get  in.  They  faced  each  other 
on  the  damp  cement  walk,  the  freshness  of  the  dewy 
lawns  about  them. 

"  Well,  good-by." 

"  Good-by."  They  felt  constrained  in  the  day- 
light, under  the  blank  stare  of  the  windows.  Their 
hands  clung.  "  You,  really  aren  't  mad  at  me. 
Helen,  about  anything  ?  "  ( 

"  Of  course  I  'm  not.  Nothing 's  happened  that 
was  n't  as  much  my  fault  as  it  was  yours." 

"You '11  let  me  know?" 

She  profnised,  though  she  had  no  intention  of 
troubling  him  with  her  problems.  It  was  not  his 
fault  that  the  boat  was  late,  and  she  had  gone  as 
gladly  as  he.  "  Don't  bother  about  it.  I  '11  be  all 
right.     Good-by." 

"  Good-by."  Still  their  fingers  clung  together. 
She  felt  a  rush  of  tenderness  toward  him. 

"Don't  look  so  worried,  you  dear!"  Quickly, 
daringly,  she  leaned  toward  him  and  brushed  a  but- 


86  DIVERGING  ROADS 

terfly's  wing  of  a  kiss  upon  his  sleeve.  Then,  em- 
barrassed, she  ran  up  the  steps. 

"See  you  Saturday,''  he  called  in  a  jubilant  un- 
dertone. She  watched  his  stocky  figure  until  it 
turned  the  corner.  Then  she  rang  the  bell.  There 
was  time  for  the  momentary  glow  to  depart,  leaving 
her  weak  and  chilly,  before  Mrs.  Campbell  opened 
the  door.  She  said  nothing.  Her  eyes,  her  tight 
lips,  her  manner  of  drawing  her  dressing-gowwback 
from  Helen's  approach,  spoke  her  thoughts.  Ex- 
planations would  be  met  with  scornful  unbelief. 

Helen  held  her  head  high  and  countered  silence 
with  silence.  But  before  she  reached  her  room  she 
heard  Mrs.  Campbell's  voice,  high-pitched  and  cut- 
ting, speaking  to  her  husband. 

"  Brazen  as  you  please !  You  're  right.  The 
only  thing  to  do  's  to  put  her  out  of  this  house  be- 
fore we  have  a  scandal  on  our  hands.  That 's  what 
I  get  for  taking  her  in,  out  of  charity !  " 

Helen  shut  her  door  softly.  She  would  leave  the 
house  that  very  day.  The  battered  alarm  clock 
pointed  to  half-past  five.  Three  hours  before  she 
could  do  anything.  She  undressed  mechanically, 
half-formed  plans  rushing  through  her  mind.  No 
money,  next  month's  wages  spent  for  these  crumpled 
clothes.  She  could  telegraph  her  mother,  but  she 
must  not  alarm  her.  Why  had  n't  she  thought  of 
borrowing  something  from  Paul?  There  was  Mr. 
Roberts,  but  she  could  never  make  up  more  money. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  87 

Perhaps  he  would  advance  the  raise  he  had  promised. 
Her  brain  was  working  with  hectic  rapidity.  She 
saw  in  flashes  rooming-houses,  the  office,  Mr.  Rob- 
erts. She  thought  out  every  detail  of  long  con- 
versations, heard  her  own  voice  explaining,  arguing, 
promising,  thanking. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SHE  woke  with  a  start  at  the  sound  of  the  alarm. 
Her  sleep  had  not  refreshed  her.  Her  body  felt 
wooden,  and  there  was  a  gritty  sensation  behind 
her  eyeballs.  Dressing  and  hurrying  to  the  office 
was  like  a  nightmare  in  which  a  tremendous  effort 
accomplishes  nothing.  The  office  routine  steadied 
her.  She  booked  the  night  messages,  laying  wet 
tissue  paper  over  them,  running  them  through  the 
copying-machine,  addressing  their  envelopes,  send- 
ing out  messenger-boys,  settling  their  disputes  over 
long  routes.  Everything  was  as  usual ;  the  sunshine 
streamed  in  through  the  plate-glass  front  of  the 
office ;  customers  came  and  went ;  the  telephone  rang ; 
the  instruments  clicked.  Her  holiday  was  gone  as 
if  she  had  dreamed  it.  There  remained  only  the 
recurring  sting  of  Mrs.  Campbell's  words,  and  a 
determination  to  leave  her  house. 

She  tried  several  times  to  talk  to  Mr.  Roberts. 
But  he  was  in  a  black  mood.  He  walked  past  her 
without  saying  good-morning,  and  over  the  question 
of  a  delayed  message  his  voice  snapped  like  a  whip- 
lash. She  saw  that  some  obscure  fury  was  working 
in  him  and  that  he  would  grant  no  favors  until  it  had 


DIVERGING  ROADS  89 

worn  itself  out.  Perhaps  he  would  be  in  a  better 
humor  later.  She  must  ask  him  for  some  money 
before  night. 

In  the  lull  just  before  noon  she  sat  at  her  table 
behind  the  screen,  her  head  on  her  arms.  She  did 
not  feel  like  working  at  the  instrument.  Mr.  Mc- 
Cormick  was  lounging  against  the  front  counter, 
talking  to  Mr.  Roberts,  who  sat  at  his  desk.  They 
would  take  care  of  any  customers;  for  a  moment 
she  could  rest  and  try  to  think. 

"Miss  Davies!" 

"  Yes,  sir !  "  She  leaped  to  her  feet.  Mr.  Rob- 
erts' tone  was  dangerous.  Had  she  forgotten  a  mes- 
sage? 

"  I  'd  like  to  show  you  the  batteries.  Come  with 
me. 

"Oh,  thank  you!  I'd  like  to  see  them."  She 
tried  by  the  cheerfulness  of  her  voice  to  make  his 
frown  relax. 

She  followed  him  gingerly  down  the  stairway  to 
the  basement.  The  batteries  stood  in  great  rows 
on  racks  of  shelves,  big  glass  jars  rimmed  with 
poisonous-looking  green  and  yellow  stains,  filled  with 
discolored  water  and  pieces  of  rotting  metal.  A 
failing  electric-light  bulb  illuminated  their  dusty 
ranks,  and  dimly  showed  black  beams  and  cobwebs 
overhead. 

"  It 's  awfully  good  of  you  to  take  so  much 
trouble,"  she  began  gratefully. 


90  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  Cut  that  out !  How  long  're  you  going  to  think 
you  're  making  a  damn  fool  of  me?  "  Mr.  Roberts 
turned  nn  her  suddenly  a  face  that  terrified  her. 
Words  choked  in  his  throat.  He  caught  her  wrist, 
and  she  felt  his  whole  body  shaking.  "  You  — 
you  —  damned  little — '*  The  rows  of  glass  jars 
spun  around  her.  She  hardly  understood  the  words 
he  flung  at  her.  "  Coming  here  with  your  big  eyes, 
playing  me  for  all  you  're  worth,  acting  innocence ! 
D  'you  think  you  've  fooled  me  a  minute  ?  D  'you 
think  I  haven't  seen  through  your  little  game? 
How  long  d  'you  think  I  'm  going  to  stand  for  it  — 
say?" 

"  Let  me  go,"  she  said,  panting. 

She  steadied  herself  against  the  end  of  a  rack, 
where  his  furious  gesture  flung  her.  They  faced 
each  other  in  the  close  space,  breathing  hard.  "  I 
don't  know  —  what  you  mean,"  she  said.  Her 
world  was  going  to  pieces  under  her  feet. 

"  You  know  damn  well  what  I  mean.  Don't  keep 
on  lying  to  me.  You  can't  put  it  over.  I  know 
where  you  were  last  night."  His  face  was  con- 
torted again.  "  Yes,  and  all  the  other  nights,  all 
the  time  you  've  been  kidding  yourself  you  were 
making  a  fool  of  me.  I  know  all  about  it.  Get 
that?  I  know  what  you  were  before  I  ever  gave 
you  a  job.  What  d  'you  suppose  I  gave  it  to  you 
for?  So  you  could  run  around  on  the  outside, 
laughing  at  me  ?  " 


DIVERGING  ROADS  91 

"Wait  — oh,  please—" 

"  I  've  done  all  the  listening  to  you  I  'm  going 
to  do.  You  're  going  to  do  something  besides 
talk  from  now  on.  I  'm  not  a  boy  you  can  twist 
around  your  finger.  I  don't  care  how  cute  you 
are." 

"  I  don't  —  want  to.  I  only  —  want  to  get 
away,"  she  said.  She  still  faced  him,  for  she  could 
not  hide  her  face  without  taking  her  eyes  from 
him,  and  she  was  afraid  to  do  that.  When  the 
silence  continued  she  began  to  drop  into  it  small 
disjointed  phrases.  "  I  did  n't  know,  I  thought  you 
were  so  good  to  me.  We  could  n't  help  the  boat  be- 
ing late.  Please,  please,  just  let  me  go  away.  I 
was  only  trying  to  learn  to  telegraph.  I  thought  I 
was  doing  so  well." 

She  felt,  then,  that  he  was  no  longer  angry,  and 
turning  against  the  cobwebbed  boards,  she  covered 
her  face  with  her  arms  and  cried.  She  hated  herself 
for  doing  it;  but  she  could  not  help  it.  Every  in- 
stant she  tried  to  stop,  and  very  soon  she  was  able 
to  do  so.  When  she  lifted  her  head  Mr.  Roberts 
was  gone. 

She  waited  a  while  among  the  uncaring  battery 
jars,  steadying  herself,  and  wiping  her  face  with  her 
handkerchief.  When  she  forced  herself  to  climb 
up  into  the  daylight  again  there  was  no  one  in 
the  office  but  McCormick,  who  sat  at  the  San  Fran- 
cisco wire,  gazing  into  space,  whistling  "  Life  's  a 


92  DIVERGING  ROADS 

funny  proposition  after  all,"  while  the  disregarded 
sounder  clattered  fretfully,  calling  him. 

Of  course  she  would  leave  the  office.  She  put  on 
her  hat  and  did  so  at  once,  but  when  she  was  out 
in  the  sunlight,  with  the  eyes  of  passers-by  upon 
her,  she  could  do  nothing  but  writhe  among  her 
thoughts  like  a  flayed  thing  among  nettles.  The 
side  streets  were  better  than  the  others,  for  there 
fewer  people  could  see  her.  If  it  were  only  night,  so 
she  could  crawl  unobserved  into  some  corner  and 
die. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  she  realized  that  her 
body  was  aching  and  that  she  was  limping  on  pain- 
ful feet.  She  had  reached  a  street  in  some  resi- 
dence subdivision,  where  cement  sidewalks  ran 
through  tangles  of  last  year's  weeds,  and  little  cot- 
tages stood  forlornly  at  long  intervals.  She 
stumbled  over  an  expanse  of  dry  stubble  and  green 
grass  and  sat  down.  She  could  not  suffer  any  more. 
It  was  good  to  sit  in  the  warm  sunshine,  to  be  alone. 
Life  was  vile.  She  shrank  from  it  with  sick  loath- 
ing. She  had  been  so  Hurt  that  she  no  longer  felt 
pain,  but  her  soul  was  nauseated. 

There  was  no  refuge  into  which  she  could  crawl. 
There  was  no  time  to  heal  her  bruises,  no  one  to  help 
her  bear  them.  The  afternoon  was  almost  gone. 
At  the  house  there  was  Mrs.  Campbell,  at  the  of- 
fice —  she  could  get  more  money  from  her  mother 
and  go  home  to  stay.     She  owed  her  mother  a  hun- 


DIVERGING  ROADS  93 

dred  dollars  —  months  of  privation  and  heartbreak- 
ing work.  She  could  not  shudder  away  from  the 
hideousness  of  life  at  such  a  cost  to  others.  Some- 
how she  must  find  strength  in  herself  to  stand  up,  to 
go  on,  to  do  something. 

Mr.  Roberts'  recommendation  was  necessary  be- 
fore she  could  get  another  telegraph  job.  She  did 
not  know  how  to  do  anything  else.  She  owed  him 
ten  dollars,  which  must  be  paid.  Paul  —  shamed 
blood  rose  in  her  cheeks  when  her  thoughts  touched 
him.     She  must  face  this  thing  alone. 

In  the  depths  of  her  mind  she  felt  a  hardness 
growing.  All  her  finer  sensibilities,  hurt  beyond 
bearing,  were  concealing  themselves  beneath  a 
coarser  hardihood.  Her  chin  went  up,  her  lips  set, 
her  eyes  narrowed  unconsciously. 

After  a  long  time  she  rose,  brushing  dead  grass- 
stalks  from  her  skirt,  and  started  back  to  town.  A 
street-car  carried  her  there  quickly.  On  the  way 
she  remembered  that  she  should  eat,  and  thought  of 
Mrs.  Brown.  The  half-punched  meal-ticket  was 
still  in  her  purse.  She  had  shivered  at  the  thought 
of  ever  seeing  Mrs.  Brown  again,  and  many  times 
she  had  intended  to  throw  away  the  bit  of  paste- 
board, but  she  had  not  been  able  to  do  so  because 
it  represented  food. 

She  got  off  the  car  at  the  corner  nearest  the  little 
restaurant,  and  forced  herself  to  its  doors.  It  was 
closed  and  empty,  and  a  "  For  Rent  "  sign  was  glued 


94  DIVERGING  ROADS 

to  the  dirty  window.  Under  her  quick  relief  there 
was  a  sense  of  triumph.  She  had  made  herself  go 
there,  at  least. 

In  a  dairy-lunch  she  drank  a  cup  of  coffee  and 
swallowed  a  sandwich.  Then  she  went  back  to  the 
telegraph-office. 

She  held  her  head  high  and  walked  steadily,  as 
she  might  have  gone  to  her  own  execution.  She  felt 
that  something  within  her  was  being  crushed  to 
death,  something  clean  and  fine  and  sensitive, 
which  must  die  before  she  could  make  herself  face 
Mr.  Roberts  again.  She  opened  the  office  door  and 
went  in. 

Mr.  Roberts  was  at  one  of  the  wires.  McCor- 
mick,  frowning,  was  booking  messages  at  her  high 
desk.  She  hung  her  hat  in  the  cabinet  and  took 
the  pen  from  his  hand. 

"  Well,  Little  Bright-eyes,  welcome  to  our  city !  '* 
he  exclaimed  in  his  usual  manner,  but  she  saw  that 
he  was  nervous,  disturbed  by  the  sense  of  tension  in 
the  air. 

"  After  this  you  *re  going  to  call  me  Miss  Da- 
vies,''  she  said,  folding  a  message  into  an  envelope. 
She  struck  the  bell  for  the  next  messenger-boy. 
Well,  she  had  been  able  to  do  that. 

It  was  harder  to  approach  Mr.  Roberts.  She  did 
not  know  whether  she  most  shrank  from  him,  de- 
spised him,  or  feared  him,  but  her  heart  fluttered  and 
she  felt  ill  when  he  came  through  the  railing  into 


DIVERGING  ROADS  95 

the  office  and  sat  down  at  his  desk.  She  went  over 
the  day's  bookings,  and  checked  up  the  messenger 
books  without  seeing  them,  until  her  hatred  of  her 
cowardice  grew  into  a  kind  of  courage.  Then  she 
went  over  to  his  desk. 

"  Mr.  Roberts,"  she  said  clearly.  "  I  'm  not  any 
of  the  things  you  called  me."  Her  cheeks,  her  fore- 
head, even  her  neck,  were  burning  painfully. 
"  I  'm  a  perfectly  decent  girl." 

"  Well,  there  's  no  use  making  such  a  fuss  about 
it,"  he  mumbled,  searching  among  his  papers  for 
one  which  apparently  was  not  there. 

"  I  would  n't  stay,  only  I  owe  you  ten  dollars  and 
I  've  got  to  have  a  job.  You  know  that.  It  was 
all  the  truth  I  told  you,  about  having  to  work.  I 
got  to  stay  here  — " 

"  How  do  you  know  I  'm  going  to  let  you  ?  "  he 
said,  stung. 

**  I  'm  a  good  clerk.  You  can't  get  another  as 
good  any  cheaper."  She  found  herself  on  the  de- 
fensive and  struck  wildly.  "  You  ought  to  anyway 
let  me  keep  the  job,  to  make  up  — " 

"  That  '11  do,"  he  said  harshly.  Turning  away 
from  her  he  caught  McCormick's  eye,  which  dropped 
quickly  to  the  message  he  was  sending.  **  Go  take 
those  messages  off  the  hook  and  get  them  out,  if 
you  want  a  job  so  bad." 

She  obeyed.  It  startled  her  to  find  she  was  meet- 
ing McCormick's  grin  with  a  little  twisted  smile 


96  DIVERGING  ROADS 

almost  as  cynical.     What  she  wanted  to  do  was  to 
scream. 

Late  that  afternoon  she  was  leaning  on  the  front 
counter,  watching  people  go  by  outside  the  plate- 
glass  windows  and  wondering  what  was  the  truth 
about  them,  when  she  felt  McCormick's  gaze  upon 
her.  He  came  a  step  closer,  putting  his  elbow  on 
the  counter  beside  hers,  and  spoke  confidentially. 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  got  the  old  man  buffaloed, 
all  right." 

"  I  wish  you  'd  leave  me  alone,"  she  said  in  a  hard, 
clear  voice. 

"  Oh,  what 's  the  use  of  getting  sore  ?  You  're  a 
plucky  little  devil.  I  like  you."  He  spoke  medi- 
tatively, as  if  considering  impersonally  his  sensa- 
tions. "  Made  a  killing  at  poker  last  night,"  he 
went  on.  When  she  did  not  answer,  "  There  's  no 
string  tied  to  a  little  loan." 

But  this,  even  with  the  flash  of  hope  it  offered, 
was  too  much  to  be  borne. 

"  Go  away !  "  she  cried.  He  strolled  back  to  the 
wires,  whistling. 

She  was  checking  up  the  last  undelivered  message 
at  six  o'clock  and  telling  herself  that  she  must  go 
back  to  Mrs.  Campbell's  for  the  night,  when  Mr. 
Roberts  laid  a  telegram  on  the  desk  beside  her. 
"  I  '11  try  to  keep  the  office  going  without  your  as- 
sistance," he  said  with  an  attempt  at  sarcasm. 
"  Don't  bother  about  me.     Just  get  out." 


DIVERGING  ROADS  97 

The  flowing  operator's  script  danced  before  her 
eyes.  She  read  it  twice.  "  See  your  service  this 
afternoon.  Can  offer  Miss  Davies  night  duty  St. 
Francis  hotel  forty-five  dollars  a  month  report  im- 
mediately.    Bryant^  Mgr.'^ 

"  San  Francisco  ?  "  she  stammered,  incredulous, 
gazing  at  the  SF  date-line.  Across  the  yellow  sheet 
she  looked  at  Mr.  Roberts,  seeing  in  his  eyes  a  dis- 
like that  was  almost  hatred.  "  I  '11  go  to-night,"  she 
said.  "  I  think  everything  's  in  order.  That  Ram- 
sey message  was  out  twice." 

When  he  had  gone,  she  borrowed  ten  dollars  from 
McCormick,  promising  to  return  it  at  the  end  of 
the  month.  She  hardly  resented  his  elaborately 
kissing  the  money  good-by,  and  holding  her  hand 
when  he  gave  it  to  her.  But  she  spent  twenty-five 
cents  of  it  to  send  a  message  from  the  station  to 
Paul,  though  McCormick  would  have  sent  it  for  her 
as  a  note,  costing  nothing. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

COOPED  in  a  narrow  space  at  the  end  of  a  long 
corridor,  Helen  sat  gazing  at  the  Hfe  of  a 
great  San  Francisco  hotel.  Every  moment  the  color 
and  glitter  shifted  under  the  brilliant  light  of  mam- 
moth chandeliers.  Tall,  gilded  elevator-doors  op- 
ened and  closed;  women  passed,  wrapped  in  satins 
and  velvets,  airy  feathers  in  their  shining  hair ;  men 
in  evening  dress  escorted  them;  bell-boys  went  by, 
carrying  silver  trays  and  calling  unintelligibly,  their 
voices  rising  above  the  continuous  muffled  stir  an3 
the  faint  sounds  of  music  from  the  Blue  Room. 

Helen  had  choked  the  telegraph-sounder  with  a 
pencil,  so  that  she  might  hear  the  music.  But  the 
tones  of  the  violins  came  to  her  blurred  by  a  low 
hum  of  voices,  by  the  rustle  of  silks,  by  the  soft 
movement  of  many  feet  on  velvet  carpets.  Noth- 
ing was  clear,  simple,  or  distinct  in  the  medley. 
Her  ears  were  baffled,  as  her  eyes  were  dazzled  and 
her  thoughts  confused,  by  a  multiplicity  of  sensa- 
tions. San  Francisco  was  a  whirlpool,  an  endless 
roaring  circle,  stupendous  and  dizzying. 

This  had  been  her  sick  impression  of  it  on  that 
first  morning,  when  she  struggled  through  the  ed- 

98 


DIVERGING  ROADS  99 

dying  crowds  at  the  ferry  building,  lugging  her 
telescope-bag  with  one  hand  and  with  the  other  try- 
ing to  hold  her  hat  in  place  against  gusts  of  wind. 
Beneath  the  uproar  of  street-car  gongs,  of  huge  wag- 
ons rumbling  over  the  cobbles,  of  innumerable  hur- 
rying feet,  whistles,  bells,  shouts,  she  had  felt  a  great 
impersonal  current,  terrifying  in  its  heedlessness  of 
all  but  its  own  mighty  swirl,  and  she  had  had  the 
sensation  of  standing  at  the  brink  of  a  maelstrom. 

After  ten  months  the  impression  still  remained. 
But  now  she  seemed  to  have  been  drawn  into  the 
motionless  vertex.  The  city  roared  around  her,  still 
incomprehensible,  still  driven  by  its  own  breathless 
speed,  but  in  the  heart  of  it  she  was  alien  and  un- 
touched. She  had  found  nothing  in  it  but  loneli- 
ness. 

Her  first  terrors  had  vanished,  leaving  her  with 
a  frustrated  sense  of  having  been  ridiculous  in  hav- 
ing them.  She  had  gathered  her  whole  strength  for 
a  great  effort,  and  she  had  found  nothing  to  do. 
Far  from  lying  in  wait  with  nameless  dangers  and 
pitfalls  for  the  unwary  stranger,  the  city  apparently 
did  not  know  she  was  there. 

At  the  main  telegraph-office  Mr.  Bryant  had  re- 
ceived her  indifferently.  He  was  a  busy  man ;  she 
was  one  detail  of  his  routine  work.  He  directed  her 
to  the  St.  Francis,  asked  her  to  report  there  at  five 
o'clock,  and,  looking  at  her  again,  inquired  whether 
she  knew  any  one  in  San  Francisco  or  had  arranged 


loo  DIVERGING  ROADS 

for  a  place  to  live.  Three  minutes  later  he  handed 
her  over  to  a  brisk  young  woman,  who  gave  her 
an  address  and  told  her  what  car  to  take  to  reach 
it. 

She  had  found  a  shabby  two-story  house  on 
Gough  Street,  with  a  discouraged  palm  in  a  tub  on 
the  front  porch.  A  colorless  woman  showed  her 
the  room.  It  was  a  small,  neat  place  under  the 
eaves,  furnished  with  an  iron  bed,  a  washstand,  a 
chair,  and  a  strip  of  rag  carpet.  The  bath-room 
was  on  the  lower  floor,  and  the  rent  was  two  dollars 
and  a  half  a  week.  Helen  set  down  her  bag  with 
a  sigh  of  relief. 

Thus  simply  she  found  herself  established  in  San 
Francisco.  Her  first  venture  into  the  St.  Francis 
had  been  no  more  exciting.  After  a  panic-stricken 
plunge  into  its  magnificence  she  was  accepted  non- 
committally  by  the  day-operator,  a  pale  girl  with 
eye-glasses,  who  was  already  putting  on  her  hat. 
She  turned  over  a  few  unsent  messages,  gave  Helen 
the  cash-box  and  rate-book,  and  departed. 

Thereafter  Helen  met  her  daily,  punctually  at  five 
o'clock,  and  saw  her  leave.  Helen  rather  looked 
forward  to  the  moment.  It  was  pleasant  to  say, 
"  Good  evening,"  once  a  day  to  some  one. 

In  the  afternoon  she  walked  about,  looking  at  the 
city,  and  learned  to  know  many  of  the  streets  by 
name.  She  discovered  the  public  library  and  read 
a  great  deal.     The  library  was  also  a  pleasant  place 


DIVERGING^RQADS        '         loi 

to  spend  Sundays,  being  less  lonely  tl;i?i;r^,  thr^rp^  5ed 
parks,  and  if  the  librarian  were  not  too  busy  one 
might  sometimes  talk  to  her  about  a  book. 

The  dragging  of  the  days,  as  much  as  her  need 
for  more  money,  had  driven  her  to  asking  for  extra 
work  at  the  main  office.  But  here,  too,  she  had  been 
dropped  into  the  machine  and  put  down  before  her 
telegraph-key,  with  barely  a  hurried  human  touch. 
A  beginner,  rated  at  forty-five  dollars,  she  replaced 
a  seventy-five-dollar  operator  on  a  heavy  wire,  and 
the  days  became  a  nerve-straining  tension  of  con- 
centration on  the  clicking  sounder  at  her  ear,  while 
the  huge  room  with  its  hundreds  of  instruments  and 
operators  faded  from  her  consciousness. 

Released  at  four  o'clock,  she  ate  forlornly  in  a 
dairy  lunch-room  and  hurried  to  the  St.  Francis. 
Here,  at  least,  she  could  watch  other  people's  lives. 
Gazing  out  at  the  changing  crowd  in  the  hotel  cor- 
ridor she  let  her  imagination  picture  the  romances, 
the  adventures,  at  her  finger-tips.  A  man  spoke 
cheerfully  to  the  cigar-boy  while  he  lighted  his 
cigarette  at  the  swinging  light  over  the  news-stand 
counter.  He  was  the  center  of  a  scandal  that  had 
filled  the  afternoon  papers,  and  under  her  hand  was 
the  message  he  had  sent  to  his  wife,  denying,  ap- 
pealing, swearing  loyalty  and  love.  A  little,  soft- 
eyed  woman  in  clinging  laces,  stepping  from  the 
elevator  to  meet  a  plump  man  in  evening  dress,  was 
there  to  put  through  a  big  mining  deal  with  him. 


I02  UIVSMGING  ROADS 

The  er^cls  of  the  iritrigite- stf^tched  out  into  vague- 
ness, but  her  telegrams  revealed  its  magnitude. 

Helen's  cramped  muscles  stirred  restlessly. 
There  was  barely  room  to  move  in  the  tiny  office, 
crowded  with  table  and  chair  and  wastebasket. 
Spaciousness  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  counter. 

She  snatched  the  pencil  from  the  counter  and 
began  a  letter  to  Paul.  Her  imagination,  at  least, 
was  released  when  she  wrote  letters. 

Dear  Paul: 

I  wonder  what  you  are  doing  now !  It 's  eight  o'clock 
and  of  course  you  Ve  had  your  supper.  Your  mother  *s 
probably  finishing  up  the  kitchen  work  and  putting  the 
bread  to  rise,  and  you  haven't  anything  to  do  but  sit  on 
the  porch  and  look  at  the  stars  and  the  lighted  windows 
here  and  there  in  the  darkness,  and  listen  to  the  breeze  in 
the  trees.  And  here  I  am,  sitting  in  a  place  that  looks  just 
like  a  hothouse  with  all  the  flowers  come  to  life.  There  's 
a  ball  upstairs,  and  a  million  girls  have  gone  through  the 
corridors,  with  flowers  and  feathers  and  jewels  in  their 
hair,  and  dresses  and  evening  cloaks  as  beautiful  as  petals. 
How  I  wish  you  could  see  them  all,  and  the  men,  too,  in 
evening  dress.  They  're  the  funniest  things  when  they  're 
fat,  but  some  of  the  slim  ones  look  like  princes  or  counts 
or  something. 

What  kind  of  new  furniture  was  it  your  mother  got? 
You  Ve  never  told  me  a  word  about  the  place  you  're 
living  since  you  moved,  and  I  'm  awfully  interested.  Do 
please  tell  me  what  color  the  wall-paper  is  and  the  carpets, 
and  the  woodwork,  and  what  the  kitchen  is  like,  and  if 
there  are  rose-bushes  in  the  yard.    Did  your  mother  get 


DIVERGING  ROADS  103 

new  curtains,  too?  There  is  a  lovely  new  material  for 
curtains  just  out  —  sort  of  silky,  and  rough,  in  the  loveliest 
colors.  I  see  it  in  the  store  windows,  and  if  your  mother 
wants  me  to  I  'd  love  to  price  it,  and  get  samples  for  her. 

A  little  boy  's  just  come  in  with  a  toy  balloon,  and  it  got 
away  from  him  and  it 's  bumping  up  around  on  the  gilded 
ceiling,  and  I  wish  you  could  hear  him  howl.  It  must  be 
fun  for  the  balloon,  though,  after  being  dragged  around 
for  hours,  tugging  all  the  time  to  get  away,  to  escape  at 
last  and  go  up  and  up  and  up  — 

I  felt  just  like  that  this  morning.  Just  think,  Paul,  I 
sent  the  last  of  the  hundred  dollars  home,  and  another 
fifty  besides!  Isn't  that  gorgeous?  I'm  making  over 
ninety  dollars  a  month  now,  with  my  extra  work  at  SF 
office,  and  my  salary  here  — 

She  paused,  biting  her  pencil.  That  would  give 
him  a  start,  she  thought.  He  had  been  so  self-satis- 
fied when  he  got  his  raise  to  being  day-operator  and 
station-agent.  She  had  not  quite  got  over  the  hurt 
of  his  taking  it  without  letting  her  know  that  the 
night-operator's  place  would  be  vacant.  He  had 
explained  that  a  girl  couldn't  handle  the  job,  but 
she  knew  that  he  did  not  want  her  to  be  working 
with  him. 

In  the  spring,  she  thought,  she  would  be  able  to 
get  some  beautiful  new  clothes  and  go  home  for  a 
visit.  Paul  would  come,  too,  when  he  knew  she 
would  be  there.  He  would  see  then  how  well  she 
could  manage  on  a  very  little  money.  In  a  few 
months  more  she  would  be  able  to  save  enough  for 
a  trousseau,  tablecloths,  and  embroidered  towels  — 


I04  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  Blank,  please !  "  A  customer  leaned  on  the 
counter.  She  gave  him  the  pad  and  watched  him 
while  he  wrote.  His  profile  was  handsome;  a  lock 
of  fair  hair  beneath  the  pushed-back  hat,  a  straight 
forehead,  an  aquiline  nose,  a  thin,  humorous  mouth. 
He  wrote  nervously,  dashing  the  pencil  across  the 
paper,  tearing  off  the  sheet  and  crumpling  it  im- 
patiently, beginning  again.  When  he  finished, 
shoving  the  message  toward  her  with  a  quick  move- 
ment, he  looked  at  her  and  smiled,  and  she  felt  a 
charm  in  the  warm  flash  of  his  eyes.  His  nervous 
vitality  was  magnetic. 

She  read  the  message.  "  *  G.  H.  Kennedy,  Cen- 
tral Trust  Company,  Los  Angeles.  Drawing  on  you 
for  five  hundred.  Must  have  it.  Absolutely  sure 
thing  this  time.  Full  explanations  follow  by  letter. 
Gilbert.'  Sixty-seven  cents,  please,"  she  said. 
She  wished  that  she  could  think  of  something  more 
to  say ;  she  would  have  liked  to  talk  to  him.  There 
was  about  him  an  impression  of  something  happen- 
ing every  instant.  When,  turning  away,  he  paused 
momentarily,  she  looked  at  him  quickly.  But  he 
was  speaking  to  the  rival  operator. 

"Hello,  kid!" 

"  On  your  way,"  the  girl  replied  imperturbably. 
Her  eyes  laughed  and  challenged.  But  with  an  an- 
swering smile  he  went  past,  and  only  his  hat  re- 
mained visible  in  glimpses  through  the  crowd. 
Then  it  turned  a  corner  and  was  gone. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  105 

"  Fresh !  "  the  girl  murmured.  "  But  gee,  he  can 
dance !  " 

Helen  looked  at  her  with  interest.  She  was  a  new 
girl,  on  relief  duty.  The  regular  operator  for  her 
company  was  a  sober,  conscientious  woman  of  thirty, 
who  studied  German  grammar  in  her  leisure  mo- 
ments.    This  one  was  not  at  all  like  her. 

"  Do  you  know  him?  "  said  Helen,  smiling  shyly. 
This  was  an  opening  for  conversation,  and  she  met 
it  eagerly.  The  other  girl  had  a  friendly  and  en- 
gaging manner,  which  obviously  included  all  the 
world. 

"  Sure  I  do,"  she  answered,  though  there  was  un- 
certainty under  the  round  tones.  She  ran  a  slim 
forefinger  through  the  blond  curl  that  lay  against 
her  neck,  smiling  at  Helen  with  a  display  of  even, 
white  teeth.  Helen  thought  of  pictures  on  maga- 
zine covers.  It  must  be  wonderful  to  be  as  pretty 
as  that,  she  thought  wistfully.  "  Who  's  he  wiring 
to?" 

Helen  passed  the  message  across  the  low  railing 
that  separated  the  offices.  She  noticed  the  shining 
of  the  girl's  fingernail  as  she  ran  it  along  the  lines. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  know  about  that  ?  He  was 
giving  me  a  song  and  dance  about  being  Judge  Ken- 
nedy's son.  You  never  can  tell  about  men,"  she 
commented  sagely,  returning  the  telegram.  "  Some- 
times they  tell  you  the  absolute  truth." 

A  childlike  quality  made  her  sophistication  merely 


io6  DIVERGING  ROADS 

piquant.  Her  comments  on  the  passing  guests  fas- 
cinated Helen,  and  an  occasional  phrase  revealed 
glimpses  of  a  world  of  gaiety  in  which  she  seemed 
to  flutter  continually,  like  a  butterfly  in  the  sunshine. 
She  worked,  it  appeared,  only  at  irregular  intervals. 

"  Momma  supports  me,  of  course  on  her  alimony. 
Papa  certainly  treated  her  rotten,  but  his  money  's 
perfectly  good,"  she  said  artlessly.  Her  frankness 
also  was  childlike,  and  her  calm  acceptance  of  the 
situation  made  it  necessary  to  regard  it  as  common- 
place.    Helen,  in  self-defense,  could  not  be  shocked. 

"  She 's  lot  of  fun,  momma  is.  Just  loves  a  good 
time.  She 's  out  dancing  now.  Gee !  I  wish  I 
was!  I'm  just  crazy  about  dancing,  aren't  you? 
Listen  to  that  music!  All  I  want  is  just  to  dance 
all  night  long.     That 's  what  I  really  love." 

"  Do  you  ever  —  often,  I  mean  —  do  it?  Dance 
all  night  long?"     Helen  asked,  wide-eyed. 

**  Only  once  a  night."  She  laughed.  "  About 
five  nights  a  week." 

Helen  thought  her  entertaining,  and  warmed  to 
her  beauty  and  charm.  In  an  hour  she  was  asking 
Helen  to  call  her  Louise,  and  although  she  made  no 
attempt  to  conceal  her  astonishment  at  the  barren- 
ness of  Helen's  life,  her  generous  desire  to  share  her 
own  good  times  took  the  sting  from  her  pity.  Why, 
Helen  did  n't  know  the  city  at  all,  she  cried,  and 
Helen  could  only  assent.  They  must  go  out  to  some 
of   the   cafes   together;   they   must    have   tea   at 


DIVERGING  ROADS  107 

Techau's;  Helen  must  com^  to  dinner  and  meet 
momma.  Louise  jumbled  a  dozen  plans  together  in 
a  rush  of  friendliness.  It  was  plain  that  she  was 
genuinely  touched  in  her  butterfly  heart  by  Helen's 
loneliness. 

'*  And  you  're  a  brunette !  "  she  cried.  "  We  '11 
be  stunning  together.  I  'm  so  blonde."  The  small 
circle  of  her  thought  returned  always  to  herself. 
Helen,  dimly  seeing  this,  felt  an  amused  tolerance, 
which  saved  her  pride  while  she  confessed  to  herself 
her  inferiority  in  cleverness  to  this  sparkling  small 
person.  Louise  would  never  have  drifted  into  dull 
stagnation;  she  would  have  found  some  way  to  fill 
her  life  with  realities  instead  of  dreams. 

Midnight  came  before  Helen  realized  it.  Tidying 
her  desk  for  the  night,  she  found  the  unfinished  let- 
ter to  Paul  and  tucked  it  into  her  purse.  She  had 
not  been  forced  to  feed  upon  her  imagination  that 
evening. 

Louise  walked  to  the  car-line  with  her,  and  it  was 
settled  that  the  next  night  Helen  should  come  to 
dinner  and  meet  momma.  It  meant  cutting  short 
her  extra  work  and  paying  the  day-operator  to  stay 
late  at  the  St.  Francis,  but  Helen  did  not  regret 
the  cost.  This  was  the  first  friend  the  city  had  of- 
fered her. 

Three  weeks  later  she  was  sharing  the  apartment 
on  Leavenworth  Street  with  Louise  and  her  momma. 


io8  DIVERGING  ROADS 

The  change  had  come  with  startling  suddenness. 
There  had  been  the  dinner  first.  Helen  approached 
it  diffidently,  doubtful  of  her  self-possession  in  a 
strange  place,  with  strange  people.  She  fortified 
herself  with  a  new  hat  and  a  veil  with  large  velvet 
spots,  yet  at  the  very  door  she  had  a  moment  of 
panic  and  thought  of  flight  and  a  telephone  message 
of  regrets.  Only  the  thought  of  her  desperate  lone- 
liness gave  her  courage  to  ring  the  bell. 

The  strain  disappeared  as  soon  as  she  met 
momma.  Momma,  slim  in  a  silk  petticoat  and  a 
frilly  dressing-sack,  had  taken  her  in  affectionately. 
Momma  was  much  like  Louise.  Helen  thought 
again  of  pictures  on  magazine  covers,  though  Louise 
suggested  a  new  magazine,  and  her  mother  did  not. 
Even  Helen  could  see  that  Momma's  pearly  com- 
plexion was  liberally  helped  by  powder,  and  her 
hair  was  almost  unnaturally  golden.  But  the  eyes 
were  the  same,  large  and  tlue,  fringed  with  black 
lashes,  and  both  profiles  had  the  same  clear,  delicate 
outlines. 

"  Yes,  dear,  most  people  do  think  we  're  sisters," 
Mrs.  Latimer  said  complacently,  when  Helen  spoke 
of  the  resemblance. 

"  We  have  awful  good  times  together,  don't  we, 
Momma  ? "  Louise  added,  her  arm  around  her 
mother's  waist,  and  Helen  felt  a  pang  at  the  fondness 
of  the  reply.     "  We  certainly  do,  kiddie." 

It   was    a    careless,    happy-go-lucky    household. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  109 

Dinner  was  scrambled  together  somehow,  with  much 
opening  of  cans,  in  a  neglected,  dingy  kitchen. 
Helen  and  Louise  washed  the  dishes  while  momma 
stirred  the  creamed  chicken.  It  was  fun  to  wash 
dishes  again  and  to  set  the  table,  and  Helen  could 
imagine  herself  one  of  the  family  while  she  listened 
to  their  intimate  chatter.  They  had  had  tea  down 
town;  there  was  mention  of  some  one's  new  car, 
somebody's  diamonds;  Louise  had  seen  a  lavalliere 
in  a  jeweler's  shop;  she  teased  her  mother  to  buy  it 
for  her,  and  her  mother  said  fondly,  "  Well,  honey- 
baby,  we  '11  see." 

They  had  hardly  begun  to  eat  when  the  telephone- 
bell  rang,  and  momma,  answering  it,  was  gone  for 
some  time.  They  caught  scraps  of  bantering  talk 
and  Louise  wondered,  "  Who  's  that  she  's  jollying 
now  ?  "  She  sprang  up  with  a  cry  of  delight  when 
momma  came  back  to  announce  that  the  crowd  was 
going  to  the  beach. 

There  was  a  scramble  to  dress.  Helen,  hooking 
their  gowns  in  the  cluttered  bedroom,  saw  dresser 
drawers  overflowing  with  sheer  underwear,  silk 
stockings,  bits  of  ribbon,  crushed  hat-trimmings,  and 
plumes.  Louise  brushed  her  eyebrows  with  a  tiny 
brush,  rubbed  her  nails  with  a  buffer,  dabbed  care- 
fully at  her  lips  with  a  lip-stick.  Helen  hoped  that 
she  did  not  show  her  surprise  at  these  novel  details 
of  the  toilet.  They  had  taken  it  for  granted  she 
was  going  to  the  beach  with  them.     Their  surprise 


no  DIVERGING  ROADS 

and  regret  were  genuine  when  she  said  she  must  go 
to  work. 

"  Oh,  what  do  you  want  to  do  that  for  ?  "  Louise 
pouted.  **  You  look  all  right."  She  said  it  doubt- 
fully, then  brightened.  "  I  '11  lend  you  some  of  my 
things.  You  'd  be  perfectly  stunning  dressed  up. 
Would  n't  she  be  stunning,  Momma  ?  You  ' ve  got 
lovely  hair  and  that  baby  stare  of  yours.  All  you 
need  's  a  dress  and  a  little  —     Is  n't  it.  Momma  ?  " 

Her  mother  agreed  warmly.  Helen  glowed  un- 
der their  praise  and  was  deeply  grateful  for  their 
interest  in  her.  She  wanted  very  much  to  go  with 
them,  and  when  she  stood  on  the  sidewalk  watching 
them  depart  in  a  big  red  automobile,  amidst  a  chorus 
of  gay  voices,  she  felt  chilled  and  lonely. 

They  were  lovely  to  be  so  friendly  to  her,  she 
thought,  while  she  went  soberly  to  work.  She  felt 
that  she  must  in  some  way  return  their  kindness, 
and  after  discarding  a  number  of  plans  she  decided 
to  take  them  both  to  a  matinee. 

It  was  Louise,  at  their  third  meeting,  who  sug- 
gested that  she  come  to  live  with  them.  "  What  do 
you  know.  Momma,  Helen  's  living  in  some  awful 
hole  all  alone.  Why  could  n't  she  come  in  with 
us?  There 's  loads  of  room.  She  could  sleep  with 
me.     Momma,  why  not?  " 

Her  mother,  smiling  lazily,  said : 

"  Well,  if  you  kids  want  to,  I  don't  care."  Helen 
was  delighted  by  the  prospect.     It  was  arranged  that 


DIVERGING  ROADS  iii 

she  should  pay  one  third  of  the  expenses,  and  Louise 
cried  joyfully:  "  Now,  Momma,  you've  got  to  get 
my  lavalliere !  " 

The  next  afternoon  Helen  packed  her  bag  and  left 
the  room  on  Gough  Street.  Her  feet  wanted  to 
dance  when  she  went  down  the  narrow  stairs  for 
the  last  time  and  let  herself  out  into  the  windy 
sunshine. 

It  was  maddening  to  find  herself  so  tied  down  by 
her  work.  In  the  early  mornings,  dragging  herself 
from  bed,  she  left  Louise  drowsy  among  the  pil- 
lows and  saw  while  she  dressed  the  tantalizing  signs 
of  last  night's  gaiety  in  the  dress  flung  over  a  chair, 
the  scattered  slippers  and  silk  stockings.  She  came 
home  at  midnight  to  a  dark,  silent  apartment,  let- 
ting herself  in  with  a  latch-key  to  find  the  dinner 
dishes  still  unwashed  and  spatterings  of  powder  on 
the  bedroom  carpet,  where  street  shoes  and  a  dis- 
carded petticoat  were  tangled  together.  She  en- 
joyed putting  things  in  order,  pretending  the  place 
was  her  own  while  she  did  it,  but  she  was  lonely, 
I^ater  she  awoke  to  blink  at  Louise,  sitting  half 
undressed  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  rubbing  her  face 
with  cold-cream,  and  to  listen  sleepily  to  her  chat- 
ter. 

"  You  '11  be  a  long  time  dead,  kiddie,"  momma 
said  affectionately.  "  What 's  the  use  of  being  a 
dead  one  till  you  have  to  ?  "     Helen's  youth  cried 


112  DIVERGING  ROADS 

that  momma  was  right.  But  she  knew  too  well  the 
miseries  of  being  penniless;  she  dared  not  give  up  a 
job.  A  chance  remark,  flung  out  on  the  endless  flow 
of  Louise's  gossip,  offered  the  solution.  ''  What  do 
you  know  about  that  boob  girl  at  MX  office  ?  She  's 
picked  a  chauffeur  in  a  garden  of  millionaires,  and 
she  's  going  to  quit  work  and  marry  him !  " 

Helen's  heart  leaped.  It  was  her  chance.  When 
she  confronted  Mr.  Bryant  across  the  main-office 
counter  the  next  morning  her  hands  trembled,  but 
her  whole  nature  had  hardened  into  a  cold  determi- 
nation. She  would  get  that  job.  It  paid  sixty  dol- 
lars a  month;  the  hours  were  from  eight  to  four. 
Whether  she  could  handle  market  reports  or  not  did 
not  matter ;  she  would  handle  them. 

She  scored  her  first  business  triumph  when  she  got 
this  job,  although  she  did  not  realize  until  many 
years  later  what  a  triumph  it  had  been.  She  settled 
into  her  work  at  the  Merchants'  Exchange  wires 
with  only  one  thought.  Now  she  was  free  to  live 
normally,  to  have  a  good  time,  like  other  girls. 

The  first  day's  work  strained  her  nerves  to  the 
breaking  point.  The  shouts  of  buyers  and  sellers  on 
the  floor,  the  impatient  pounding  on  the  counter  of 
customers  with  rush  messages,  the  whole  breathless 
haste  and  excitement  of  the  exchange,  blurred  into 
an  indistinct  clamor  through  which  she  heard  only 
the  slow,  heavy  working  of  the  Chicago  wire,  tap- 
ping out  a  meaningless  jumble  of  letters  and  frac- 


DIVERGING  ROADS  113 

tions.  She  concentrated  upon  it,  with  an  effort 
which  made  her  a  bHnd  machine.  The  scrawled 
quotations  she  flung  on  the  counter  were  wrought 
from  an  agony  of  nerves  and  brain. 

But  it  was  over  at  last,  and  she  hurried  home. 
The  dim  stillness  of  the  apartment  was  an  invitation 
to  rest,  but  she  disregarded  it,  slipping  out  of  her 
shirt-waist  and  splashing  her  face  and  bare  arms 
with  cold  water.  A  new  chiffon  blouse  was  waiting 
in  its  box,  and  a  thrill  of  anticipation  ran  through 
her  when  she  Hfted  it  from  its  tissue  wrappings. 

She  fastened  the  soft  folds,  pleased  by  the  lines  of 
her  round  arms  seen  through  the  transparency,  and 
her  slender  neck  rising  from  white  frills.  In  the 
hand-glass  she  gazed  at  the  oval  of  her  face  reflected 
in  the  dressing-table  mirror,  and  suddenly  lifting  her 
lids  caught  the  surprising  effect  of  the  sea-gray  eyes 
beneath  black  lashes,  an  effect  she  had  never  known 
until  Louise  spoke  of  it. 

She  was  pretty.  She  was  almost  —  she  caught 
her  breath  —  beautiful.  The  knowledge  was  more 
than  beauty  itself,  for  it  brought  self-assurance. 
She  felt  equal  to  any  situation  the  evening  might 
offer,  and  she  was  smiling  at  herself  in  the  mirror 
when  Louise  burst  in,  a  picture  in  a  dashing  little 
serge  suit  and  a  hat  whose  black  line  was  like  the 
stroke  of  an  artist's  pencil. 

"  The  alimony  's  come !  "  she  cried.  "  We  're  go- 
ing to  have  a  regular  time !     Momma  '11  meet  us 


114  DIVERGING  ROADS 

down  town.  Look,  isn't  it  stunning?"  She  dis- 
played the  longed-for  lavalliere  twinkling  against  her 
smooth  young  neck.  "  I  knew  I  'd  get  it  somehow. 
Momma  —  the  stingy  thing !  —  she  went  and  got  her 
new  furs.  But  we  met  Bob,  and  he  bought  it  for 
me.'*  She  sat  down  before  the  mirror,  throwing  off 
her  hat  and  letting  down  her  hair.  "  I  don't  know 
—  it 's  only  a  chip  diamond.'*  Her  moods  veered  as 
swiftly  as  light  summer  breezes.  *'  I  wish  mom- 
ma 'd  get  me  a  real  one.  It 's  nonsense,  her  treating 
me  like  a  baby.     I  'm  seventeen." 

Helen  felt  her  delight  in  the  new  waist  evaporate. 
Louise's  chatter  always  made  her  feel  at  a  disad- 
vantage. There  was  a  distance  between  them  that 
they  seemed  unable  to  bridge,  and  Helen  realized  that 
it  was  her  fault.  Perhaps  it  was  because  she  had 
been  so  long  alone  that  she  often  felt  even  more 
lonely  when  she  was  with  Louise. 

The  sensation  returned,  overpowering,  when  they 
joined  the  crowd  in  the  restaurant.  She  could  only 
follow  Louise's  insouciant  progress  through  a  bewil- 
dering medley  of  voices,  music,  brilliant  lights,  and 
stumble  into  a  chair  at  a  table  ringed  with  strange 
faces.  Momma  was  there,  her  hat  dripping  with 
plumes,  white  furs  flung  negligently  over  her  shoul- 
ders, her  fingers  a  blaze  of  rings.  There  was  an- 
other resplendent  woman,  named  Nell  Allan ;  a  bald- 
headed  fat  man  called  Bob ;  a  younger  man,  with  a 
lean  face  and  restless  blue  eyes,  hailed  by  Louise  as 


DIVERGING  ROADS  115 

Duddy.  They  were  having  a  very  gay  time,  but 
Helen,  shrinking  unnoticed  in  her  chair,  was  unac- 
countably isolated  and  lonely.  She  could  think  of 
nothing  to  say.  There  was  no  thread  in  the  rapid 
chatter  at  which  she  could  clutch.  They  were  all 
talking,  and  every  phrase  seemed  a  flash  of  wit,  since 
they  all  laughed  so  much. 

**  I  love  the  cows  and  chickens,  but  this  is  the 
Hfe!''  Duddy  cried  at  intervals.  "Oh,  you  chick- 
ens! "  and  "  This  is  the  life!  "  the  others  responded 
in  a  chorus  of  merriment.  Helen  did  not  doubt  that 
it  all  meant  something,  but  her  wits  were  too  slow 
to  grasp  it,  and  the  talk  raced  on  unintelligibly.  She 
could  only  sit  silent  eating  delicate  food  from  plates 
that  waiters  whisked  into  place  and  whisked  away 
again,  and  laughing  uncertainly  when  the  others  did. 

Color  and  light  and  music  beat  upon  her  brain. 
About  her  was  a  confusion  of  movement,  laughter, 
clinking  glasses,  glimpses  of  white  shoulders  and  red 
lips,  perfumes,  hurrying  waiters,  steaming  dishes, 
and  over  and  through  it  all  the  quick,  accented 
rhythm  of  the  music,  swaying,  dominating,  blending 
all  sensations  into  one  quickening  vibration. 

Suddenly,  from  all  sides,  hidden  in  the  artificial 
foliage  that  covered  the  walls,  silvery  bells  took  up 
the  melody.  Helen,  inarticulate  and  motionless,  felt 
Ijer  nerves  tingle,  alive,  joyful,  eager. 

There  was  a  pushing  back  of  chairs,  and  she 
started.     But    they    were      only    going    to    dance. 


ii6  DIVERGING  ROADS 

Duddy  and  momma,  Bob  and  Mrs.  Allan,  swept 
out  into  a  whirl  of  white  arms  and  dark  coats,  tilted 
faces  and  swaying  bodies.  "  Is  n't  it  lovely !  " 
Helen  murmured. 

But  Louise  was  not  listening.  She  sat  mutinous, 
her  fingers  tapping  time  to  the  music,  her  eyes  be- 
neath the  long  lashes  searching  the  room.  "  I  can't 
help  it.  I  just  got  to  dance!"  she  muttered,  and 
suddenly  she  was  gone.  Some  one  met  her  among 
the  tables,  put  his  arms  around  her,  and  whirled  her 
away.  Helen,  watching  for  her  black  hat  and  happy 
face  to  reappear,  saw  that  she  was  dancing  with  the 
man  whose  telegram  had  introduced  them.  Mem- 
ory finally  gave  her  his  name.     Gilbert  Kennedy. 

Louise  brought  him  to  the  table  when  the  music 
ceased.  There  were  gay  introductions,  and  Helen 
wished  that  she  could  say  something.  But  momma 
monopolized  him, ,  squeezing  in  an  extra  chair  for 
him  beside  her,  and  saying  how  glad  she  was  to 
meet  a  friend  of  her  little  girl's. 

Helen  could  only  be  silent,  listening  to  their  in- 
comprehensible gaiety,  and  feeling  an  attraction  for 
him  as  irresistible  as  an  electric  current.  She  did 
not  know  what  it  was,  but  she  thought  him  the  hand- 
somest man  she  had  ever  seen,  and  she  felt  that  he 
did  whatever  he  wanted  to  do  with  invariable  suc- 
cess. He  was  not  like  the  others.  He  talked  their 
jargon,  but  he  did  not  seem  of  them,  and  she  noticed 
that  his  hazel  eyes,  set  in  a  network  of  tiny  wrinkles, 


DIVERGING  ROADS  117 

were  at  once  avid  and  weary.  Yet  he  could  not  be 
older  than  twenty-eight  or  so.  He  danced  with 
momma,  when  again  the  orchestra  began  a  rag,  but 
coming  back  to  the  table  with  the  others,  he  said  rest- 
lessly : 

*'  Let 's  go  somewhere  else.  My  car  's  outside. 
How  about  the  beach  ?  " 

"  Grand  little  idea !  "  Duddy  declared  amid  an 
approving  chorus.  Helen,  following  the  others 
among  the  tables  and  through  the  swinging  doors  to 
the  curb  where  the  big  gray  car  stood  waiting,  told 
herself  that  she  must  make  an  effort,  must  pay  for 
this  wonderful  evening  with  some  contribution  to  the 
fun.  But  when  they  had  all  crowded  into  the  ma- 
chine and  she  felt  the  rush  of  cool  air  against  her 
face  and  saw  the  street  lights  speeding  past,  she  for- 
got everything  but  joy.  She  was  having  a  good 
time  at  last,  and  a  picture  of  the  Masonville  girls 
flashed  briefly  through  her  mind.  How  meager 
their  picnics  and  hay  rides  appeared  beside  this  1 

She  half  formed  the  phrases  in  which  she  would 
describe  to  Paul  their  racing  down  the  long  boule- 
vard beside  the  beach,  the  salty  air,  and  the  darkness, 
and  the  long  white  lines  of  foam  upon  the  breakers. 
This,  she  realized  with  exultation,  was  a  joy-ride. 
She  had  read  the  word  in  newspapers,  but  its  apt- 
ness had  never  before  struck  her. 

It  was  astounding  to  find,  after  a  rush  through  thfe 
darkness  of  the  park,  that  the  car  was  stopping. 


ii8  DIVERGING  ROADS 

Every  one  was  getting  out.  Amazed  and  trying 
to  conceal  her  amazement,  she  went  with  them 
through  a  blaze  of  light  into  another  restaurant 
where  another  orchestra  played  the  same  gay  music 
and  dancers  whirled  beyond  a  film  of  cigarette 
smoke.  They  sat  down  at  a  round  bare  table,  and 
Helen  perceived  that  one  must  order  something  to 
drink. 

She  listened  to  the  rapid  orders,  hesitating. 
"  Blue  moons  "  were  intri^guing,  and  "  slow  gin  fizz  " 
was  fascinating,  with  its  suggestion  of  fireworks. 
But  beside  her  Mr.  Kennedy  said,  "  Scotch  high- 
ball," and  the  waiter  took  her  hesitation  for  repe- 
tition. The  glass  appeared  before  her,  there  was  a 
cry  of  "  Happy  days !  "  and  she  swallowed  a  queer- 
tasting,  stinging  mouthful.  She  set  the  glass  down 
hastily. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  high-ball?"  Mr. 
Kennedy  inquired.  He  had  paid  the  waiter,  and 
she  felt  the  obligation  of  a  guest. 

"  It 's  very  good  really.  But  I  don't  care  much 
for  drinks  that  are  fizzy,"  she  said.  She  saw  a 
faint  amusement  in  his  eyes,  but  he  did  not  smile, 
and  his  order  to  the  waiter  was  peremptory. 
"  Plain  high-ball  here,  no  seltzer."  The  waiter  has- 
tened to  bring  it. 

Mr.  Kennedy's  attention  was  still  upon  her,  and 
she  saw  no  escape.     She  smiled  at  him  over  the 


DIVERGING  ROADS  119 

glass.  "  Happy  days !  '*  she  said,  and  drank.  She 
set  down  the  empty  glass  and  the  muscles  of  her 
throat  choked  back  a  cough.  "  Thank  you,"  she 
said,  and  was  surprised  to  find  that  the  weariness 
was  no  longer  in  his  eyes. 

"  You  're  all  right !  "  he  said.  His  tone  was  that 
of  the  vanquished  greeting  the  victor,  and  his  next 
words  were  equally  enigmatic.  "  I  hate  a  bluffer 
that  does  n't  make  good  when  he  's  called !  "  The 
orchestra  had  swung  into  a  new  tune,  and  he  half 
rose.     "Dance?" 

It  was  hard  to  admit  her  deficiency  and  let  him  go. 

"  I  can't.     I  don't  know  how." 

He  sat  down. 

"  You  don't  know  how  to  dance  ?  "  His  inflec- 
tion said  that  this  was  carrying  a  pretense  too  far, 
that  in  overshooting  a  mark  she  had  missed  it.  His 
keen  look  at  her  suddenly  made  clear  a  fact  for 
which  she  had  been  unconsciously  groping  while  she 
watched  these  men  and  women,  the  clue  to  their  re- 
lations. Beneath  their  gaiety  a  ceaseless  game  was 
being  played,  man  against  woman,  and  every  word 
and  glance  was  a  move  in  that  game,  the  basis  of 
which  was  enmity.  He  thought  that  she,  too,  was 
playing  it,  and  against  him. 

"  Why  do  you  think  I  'm  lying  to  you,  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy? I  would  like  to  dance  if  I  could  —  of 
course." 


I20  DIVERGING  ROADS 

'1  don't  get  you,"  he  replied  with  equal  direct- 
ness. "  What  do  you  come  out  here  for  if  you 
don't  drink  and  don't  dance  ?  " 

It  would  be  too  humiliating  to  confess  the  extent 
of  her  inexperience,  her  ignorance  of  the  city  in 
which  she  had  lived  for  almost  a  year.  "  I  come 
because  I  like  it,"  she  said.  "  I  've  worked  hard 
for  a  long  time  and  never  had  any  fun.  And  I  'm 
going  to  learn  to  dance.  I  don't  know  about  drink- 
ing. I  don't  like  the  taste  of  it  much.  Do  people 
really  like  to  drink  high-balls  and  things  like  that?  " 

It  startled  a  laugh  from  him. 

"  Keep  on  drinking  'em,  and  you  '11  find  out  why 
people  do  it,"  he  answered.  Over  his  shoulder  he 
said  to  the  waiter,  "  Couple  of  rye  high-balls,  Ben." 

The  others  were  dancing.  They  were  alone  at 
the  table,  and  when,  resting  an  elbow  on  the  edge 
of  it,  he  concentrated  his  attention  upon  her,  the 
crowded  room  became  a  swirl  of  color  and  light 
about  their  isolation.  Her  breath  came  faster,  the 
toe  of  her  slipper  kept  time  to  the  music,  exhilara- 
tion mounted  in  her  veins,  and  her  success  in  holding 
his  interest  was  like  wine  to  her.  But  a  cold,  keen 
inner  self  took  charge  of  her  brain. 

The  high-balls  arrived.  She  felt  that  she  must 
be  rude,  and  did  not  drink  hers.  When  he  urged 
she  refused  as  politely  as  she  could.     He  insisted. 

"  Drink  it !  "  She  felt  the  clash  of  an  imperious, 
reckless    will    against    her    impassive    resistance. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  121 

There  was  a  second  in  which  neither  moved,  and 
their  whole  relation  subtly  changed.  Then  she 
laughed. 

"  I  'd  really  rather  not,"  she  said  lightly. 

"  Come  on  —  be  game,"  he  said. 

"  The  season  's  closed,"  Louise's  flippancies  had 
not  been  without  their  effect  on  her.  It  was  easier 
to  drop  back  into  her  own  language.  "  No,  really  — 
tell  me,  why  do  people  drink  things  that  taste  like 
that?" 

He  met  her  on  her  own  ground.  "  You  've  got  to 
drink,  to  let  go,  to  have  a  good  time.  It  breaks 
down  inhibitions."  She  noted  the  word.  The  use 
of  such  words  was  one  of  the  things  that  marked 
his  difference  from  the  others.  "  God  knows  why," 
he  added  wearily.  **  But  what's  the  use  of  living 
if  you  don't  hit  the  high  spots?  And  there's  a 
streak  of  —  perversity  —  depravity  in  me  that 's  got 
to  have  this  kind  of  thing." 

Their  group  swooped  down  about  the  table,  and 
the  general  ordering  of  more  drinks  ended  their 
talk.  There  was  a  clamor  when  Helen  said  she  did 
not  want  anything.  Duddy  swept  away  her  pro- 
tests and  ordered  for  her,  but  momma  came  to  the 
rescue. 

"  Let  the  kid  alone ;  she  's  not  used  to  it.  You 
stick  to  lemon  sours,  baby.  Don't  let  them  kid 
you,"  she  said.  The  chatter  swept  on,  leaving  her 
once  more  unnoticed,  but  when  the  music  called 


122  DIVERGING  ROADS 

again  Mr.  Kennedy  took  her  out  among  the  dancers. 

"  You  're  all  right,"  he  said.  "  Just  let  yourself 
go  and  follow  me.  It 's  only  a  walk  to  music." 
And  unaccountably  she  found  herself  dancing,  felt 
the  rhythm  beat  through  blood  and  nerves,  and 
stiffness  and  awkwardness  drop  away  from  her. 
She  felt  like  a  butterfly  bursting  from  a  chrysalis, 
like  a  bird  singing  in  the  dawn.  She  was  so  happy 
that  Mr.  Kennedy  laughed  at  the  ecstacy  in  her 
face. 

"  You  look  like  a  kid  in  a  candy-shop,"  he  said, 
swinging  her  past  a  jam  with  a  long,  breathless 
swooping  glide  and  picking  up  the  step  again. 

"  I  'm  —  per-fect-ly-happy !  "  she  cried,  in  time 
to  the  tune.     "  It 's  awfully  good  —  of  you-ou !  " 

He  laughed  again. 

**  Stick  to  me,  and  I  '11  teach  you  a  lot  of  things," 
he  said. 

She  found,  when  she  went  reluctantly  back  to  the 
table  with  him,  that  the  others  were  talking  of  leav- 
ing. It  hurt  to  hear  him  enthusiastically  greeting 
the  suggestion.  But  after  they  were  in  the  machine 
it  appeared  that  they  were  not  going  home.  There 
was  an  interval  of  rushing  through  the  cool  dark- 
ness, and  then  another  restaurant  just  like  the  oth- 
ers, and  more  dancing. 

The  hours  blurred  into  a  succession  of  those  swift 
dashes  through  the  clean  night  air,  and  recurring 
plunges  into  light  and  heat  and  smoke  and  music. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  123 

Helen,  faithfully  sticking  to  lemon  sours  as  momma 
had  advised,  discovered  that  she  could  dance  some- 
thing called  a  rag,  and  something  else  known  as  a 
Grizzly  Bear;  heard  Duddy  crying  that  she  was 
some  chicken;  felt  herself  a  great  success.  Bob  was 
growing  strangely  sentimental  and  talked  sorrow- 
fully about  his  poor  old  mother;  momma's  cheeks 
were  flushed  under  the  rouge,  and  she  sang  part 
of  a  song,  forgetting  the  rest  of  the  words.  The 
crowd  shifted  and  separated;  somewhere  they  lost 
part  of  it,  and  a  stranger  appeared  with  Louise. 

Helen,  forced  at  last  to  think  of  her  work  next 
morning,  was  horrified  to  find  that  it  was  two 
o'clock.  Momma  agreed  that  the  best  of  friends 
must  part.  They  sang  while  they  sped  through  the 
sleeping  city,  the  stars  overhead  and  the  street  lights 
flashing  by.  Drowsily  happy,  Helen  thought  it  no 
harm  to  rest  her  head  on  Mr.  Kennedy's  shoulder, 
since  his  other  arm  was  around  momma,  and  she 
wondered  what  it  would  be  like  if  a  man  so  fasci- 
nating were  in  love  with  her.  It  would  be  fright- 
fully thrilling  and  exciting,  she  thought,  playing 
daringly  with  the  idea. 

"See  you  again!"  they  all  cried,  when  she 
alighted  with  momma  and  Louise  before  the  dark 
apartment-house.  The  others  were  going  on  to 
more  fun  somewhere.  She  shook  hands  with  Mr. 
Kennedy,    feeling    a    contraction    of    her    heart. 


124  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  Thank  you  for  a  very  pleasant  time/*  She  felt 
that  he  was  amused  by  the  stilted  words. 

"  Don't  forget  it  is  n't  the  last  one !  "  he  said. 

She  did  not  forget.  The  words  repeated  them- 
selves in  her  mind ;  she  heard  his  voice,  and  felt  his 
arm  around  her  waist  and  the  music  throbbing  in 
her  blood  for  a  long  time.  The  sensations  came 
back  to  her  in  the  pauses  of  her  work  next  day, 
while  she  dragged  through  the  hours  as  if  she  were 
drugged,  hearing  the  noise  of  the  exchange  and 
the  market  quotations  clicking  off  the  Chicago  wire, 
now  very  far  and  thin,  now  close  and  sickeningly 
loud. 

She  was  white  and  faint  when  she  got  home,  and 
momma  suggested  a  bromo-seltzer  and  offered  to 
lend  her  some  rouge.  But  Mr.  Kennedy  had  not 
telephoned,  and  she  went  to  bed  instead  of  going  out 
with  them  that  evening.  It  was  eleven  days  before 
he  did  telephone. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  the  mornings  Helen  went  to  work.  The  first 
confusion  of  the  Merchants'  Exchange  had 
cleared  a  little.  She  began  to  see  a  pattern  in  the 
fluctuations  of  the  market  quotations.  January 
wheat,  February  wheat,  May  corn,  became  a  drama 
to  her,  and  while  she  snatched  the  figures  from  the 
wire  and  tossed  them  to  the  waiting  boy,  saw  them 
chalked  up  on  the  huge  board,  and  heard  the  shouts 
of  the  brokers,  she  caught  glimpses  of  the  world- 
wide gamble  in  lives  and  fortunes. 

But  it  was  only  another  great  spectacle  in  which 
she  had  no  part.  She  was  merely  a  living  mechani- 
cal attachment  to  the  network  of  wires.  She  wanted 
to  tear  herself  away,  to  have  a  life  of  her  own, 
a  life  that  went  forward,  instead  of  swinging  Hke 
a  pendulum  between  home  and  the  office. 

She  did  not  want  to  work.  She  had  never  wanted 
to  work.  Working  had  been  only  a  means  of  reach- 
ing sooner  her  own  life  with  Paul.  The  road  had 
run  straight  before  her  to  that  end.  But  now  Paul 
would  not  let  her  follow  it;  he  did  not  want  her 
to  work  with  him  at  Ripley ;  she  would  have  to  wait 
until  he  made  money  enough  to  support  her.  And 
she  hated  work. 

"5 


126  DIVERGING  ROADS 

Resting  her  chin  on  one  palm,  listening  half  con- 
sciously for  her  call  to  interrupt  the  ceaseless  clicking 
of  the  sounder,  she  gazed  across  the  marble  counter 
and  the  vaulted  room ;  the  gesticulating  brokers,  the 
scurrying  messengers,  faded  into  a  background 
against  which  she  saw  again  the  light  and  color 
and  movement  of  the  night  when  she  had  met  Mr. 
Kennedy.  She  heard  his  voice.  "  What 's  the  use 
of  Hving  if  you  don't  hit  the  high  spots?" 

She  hurried  home  at  night,  expecting  she  knew 
not  what.  But  it  had  not  happened.  Restlessness 
took  possession  of  her,  and  she  turned  for  hours 
on  her  pillow,  dozing  only  to  hear  the  clicking  of 
telegraph-sounders,  and  music,  and  to  find  herself 
dancing  on  the  floor  of  the  Merchants'  Exchange 
with  a  strange  man  who  had  Mr.  Kennedy's  eyes. 
Gn  the  eleventh  day  she  received  a  letter  from  Paul, 
which  quieted  the  turmoil  of  her  thoughts  like  a 
dash  of  cold  water.  In  his  even  neat  handwriting 
he  wrote : 

I  suppose  the  folks  you  write  about  are  all  right.  They 
sound  pretty  queer  to  me.  I  don't  pretend  to  know  any- 
thing about  San  Francisco,  though.  But  I  don't  see  how 
you  are  going  to  hold  down  a  job  and  keep  up  with  the 
way  they  seem  to  spend  their  time,  though  I  will  not  say 
anything  about  dancing.  You  know  I  could  not  do  it  and 
stay  in  the  church,  but  I  do  not  mean  to  bring  that  up 
again  in  a  letter.  You  were  mighty  fine  and  straight  and 
sincere  about  that,  and  if  you  do  not  feel  the  call  to  join 
I  would  not  urge  you.     But  I  do  not  think  I  would  like 


DIVERGING  ROADS  127 

your  new   friends.     I  would   rather   a  girl  was  not  so 
pretty,  but  used  less  slang  when  she  talks. 

The  words  gained  force  by  echoing  a  stifled  opin- 
ion of  her  own.  With  no  other  standard  than  her 
own  instinct,  she  had  had  moments  of  criticising 
Louise  and  momma.  But  she  had  quickly  hidden 
the  criticism  in  the  depths  of  her  mind,  because  they 
were  companions  and  she  had  not  been  able  to  find 
any  others.  Now  they  stood  revealed  through 
Paul's  eyes  as  glaringly  cheap  and  vulgar. 

Her  longing  for  a  good  time,  if  she  must  have  it 
with  such  people,  appeared  weak  and  foolish  to  her. 
She  felt  older  and  steadier  when  she  went  home  that 
night.  Then,  just  as  she  entered  the  door,  the  tele- 
phone rang  and  Louise  called  that  Gilbert  Kennedy 
wanted  to  speak  to  her. 

It  was  impossible  to  analyze  his  fascination.  Un- 
counted times  she  had  gone  over  all  he  had  said, 
all  she  could  conjecture  about  him,  vainly  seeking 
an  explanation  of  it.  The  mere  sound  of  his  voice 
revived  the  spell  like  an  incantation,  and  her  half- 
hearted resistance  succumbed  to  it. 

Before  the  dressing-table,  hurrying  to  make  her- 
self beautiful  for  an  evening  with  him,  she  leaned 
closer  to  the  glass  and  tried  to  find  the  answer  in 
the  gray  eyes  looking  back  at  her.  But  they  only 
grew  eager,  and  her  reflection  faded,  to  leave  her 
brooding  on  the  memory  of  his  face,  half  mocking 


128  DIVERGING  ROADS 

and  half  serious,  and  the  tired  hunger  of  his  eyes. 

"  Have  a  heart,  for  the  lovea  Mike !  "  cried  Louise. 
"  Give  me  a  chance.  You  are  n't  using  the  mirror 
yourself,  even!  "  She  slipped  into  the  chair  Helen 
left  and,  pushing  back  her  mass  of  golden  hair,  gazed 
searchingly  at  her  face.  "  Got  to  get  my  lashes 
dyed  again ;  they  're  grov^ing  out.  Say,  you  cer- 
tainly did  make  a  hit  with  Kennedy !  " 

"  Where 's  the  nail  polish  ? "  Helen  asked, 
searching  in  the  hopeless  disorder  of  the  bureau 
drawers.  "  Oh,  here  it  is.  What  do  you  know 
about  him?  " 

"  Well,  he  's  one  of  those  Los  Angeles  Kennedys. 
You  know,  old  man  was  indicted  for  something 
awhile  ago.  Loads  of  money."  Louise,  dabbing 
on  cold-cream,  spoke  in  jerks.  "  His  brother  was 
the  one  that  ran  off  with  Cissy  Leroy,  and  his  wife 
shot  her  up.  Don't  you  remember?  It  was  in  all 
the  papers.  I  used  to  know  Cissy,  too.  She  was  an 
awful  good  sport,  really.  Don't  you  love  that  big 
car  of  his?  " 

Helen  did  not  answer.  In  her  revulsion  she  felt 
that  she  was  not  at  all  interested  in  Gilbert  Kennedy, 
and  she  had  the  sensation  of  being  freed  from  a 
weight. 

Momma,  slipping  a  rustling  gown  over  her  head, 
spoke  through  the  folds.  "  He  's  a  live  wire,"  she 
praised.  She  settled  the  straps  over  her  shoulders, 
tossing  a   fond  smile  at  Helen.     "  Hook  me  up. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  129 

dearie  ?  Yes,  he 's  a  live  wire  all  right,  and  you  Ve 
certainly  got  him  coming." 

A  sudden  thought  chilled  Helen  to  the  finger-tips. 
She  fumbled  with  the  hooks. 

"  He  is  n't  married,  is  he  ?  " 

"Married!  Well,  I  should  say  not!  What  do 
you  think  I  am?"  momma  demanded.  "Do  you 
think  I  'd  steer  you  or  Louise  up  against  anything 
like  that?"  Her  voice  softened.  "I  know  too 
well  what  unhappiness  comes  from  some  one  taking 
another  lady's  husband  away  from  his  home  and 
family,  though  he  does  pay  the  alimony  regular  as 
the  day  comes  around,  I  will  say  that  for  him.  I 
hope  never  to  live  to  see  the  day  my  girl,  or  you 
either,  does  a  thing  Hke  that."  There  was  genuine 
emotion  in  her  voice.  Helen  felt  a  rush  of  affec- 
tionate pity  for  her,  and  Louise,  springing  up,  threw 
her  bare  arms  around  her  mother. 

*'  Don't  you  worry,  angel  momma !  I  see  myself 
doing  it !  "  she  cried. 

At  such  moments  of  warm-hearted  sincerity  Helen 
was  fond  of  them  both.  She  felt  ashamed  while  she 
finished  dressing.  They  were  lovely  to  her,  she 
thought,  and  they  accepted  people  as  they  were, 
without  sneaking  little  criticisms  and  feelings  of 
superiority.  She  did  not  know  what  she  thought 
about  anything. 

Her  indecisions  were  cut  short  by  the  squawk  of 
an  automobile-horn  beneath  the  windows.     With 


I30  DIVERGING  ROADS 

last  hasty  slaps  of  powder-puffs  and  a  snatching  of 
gloves,  they  hurried  down  to  meet  Mr.  Kennedy  at 
the  door,  and  again  Helen  felt  his  charm  like  a 
tangible  current  between  them.  Words  choked  in 
her  throat,  and  she  stood  silent  in  a  little  whirlpool 
of  greetings. 

There  were  three  indistinct  figures  already  in  the 
tonneau;  a  glowing  cigar-end  lighted  a  fat,  jolly 
face,  and  two  feminine  voices  greeted  momma  and 
Louise.  Hesitating  on  the  curb,  Helen  felt  a  warm, 
possessive  hand  close  on  her  arm. 

"  Get  out,  Dick.  CHmb  in  back.  This  little 
girl 's  going  in  front  with  me."  The  dominating 
voice  made  the  words  like  an  irresistible  force.  Not 
until  she  was  sitting  beside  him  and  a  docile  young 
man  had  wedged  himself  into  the  crowded  space 
behind,  did  it  occur  to  her  to  question  it. 

"  Do  you  always  boss  people  like  that  ?  ** 

They  were  racing  smoothly  down  a  slope,  and  his 
answer  came  through  the  rushing  of  the  wind  past 
her  ears.  "  Always."  The  gleam  of  a  headlight 
passed  across  his  face  and  she  saw  it  keen,  alert,  in- 
tensely alive.  "  Ask,  and  you  '11  have  to  argue. 
Command,  and  people  jump.  It 's  the  man  that 
orders  what  he  wants  that  gets  it.  Philosophy 
taught  in  ten  lessons,"  he  added  in  a  contemptuous 
undertone.  "  Well,  little  girl,  you  have  n't  been  for- 
getting  me,  have  you  ?  " 

She  disregarded  the  change  of  tone.     His  idea  had 


DIVERGING  ROADS  131 

struck  her  as  extraordinarily  true.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  her.     She  turned  it  over  in  her  mind. 

*'  A  girl  ought  to  be  able  to  work  it,  too,"  she  said. 

He  laughed. 

"  Maybe.     She  finds  it  easier  to  work  a  man." 

"  I  'm  too  polite  to  agree  that  all  of  you  are 
soft  things." 

"  You  're  too  clever  to  find  any  of  us  hard  to 
handle." 

''Yes?  Isn't  it  too  bad  putty  is  so  xminterest- 
ing?" 

She  was  astounded  at  her  own  words.  They 
came  from  her  lips  with  no  volition  of  her  own, 
leaping  automatically  in  response  to  his.  She  felt 
only  the  stimulation  of  his  interest,  of  his  electrical 
presence  beside  her,  of  their  swift  rush  through  the 
darkness  pierced  by  flashing  lights. 

"  You  don't,  of  course,  compare  me  to  putty?  " 

"  Well,  of  course,  it  does  set  and  stay  put,  in  the 
end.     You  can  depend  on  it." 

"  You  can  count  on  me,  all  right.  I  'm  crazy 
about  you." 

"  Crazy  people  are  unaccountable." 

Her  heart  was  racing.  The  speed  of  the  car,  the 
rush  of  the  air,  were  in  her  veins.  She  had  never 
dreamed  that  she  could  talk  like  this.  This  man 
aroused  in  her  qualities  she  had  never  known  she 
possessed,  and  their  discovery  intoxicated  her. 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  turning  the  car  into  a 


132  DIVERGING  ROADS 

quieter  street.  There  was  laughter  behind  them, 
one  of  the  others  called :  "  We  should  worry  about 
the  cops!  Go  to  it,  Bert!  "  He  did  not  reply,  and 
the  leap  of  the  car  swept  their  chatter  backward 
again. 

"  Going  too  fast  for  you?  "  She  read  a  double 
meaning  and  a  challenge  in  the  words. 

"  I  Ve  never  gone  too  fast!  "  she  answered.  "  I 
love  to  ride  like  this.     Where  are  we  going?'* 

"  Anywhere  you  want  to  go,  as  long  as  it 's  with 
me." 

"  Then  let 's  just  keep  going  and  never  get  there. 
Do  you  know  what  I  thought  you  meant  the  other 
night  when  you  said  we'd  go  to  the  beach?" 

"  No,  what?  "     He  was  interested. 

She  told  him.  This  was  safer  ground,  and  she 
enlarged  her  mental  picture  of  the  still,  moonlit 
beach,  the  white  breakers  foaming  along  the  shore, 
the  salt  wind,  and  the  darkness,  and  the  car  plung- 
ing down  a  long  white  boulevard. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  'd  never  been  to 
the  beach  resorts  before?  " 

"  Isn't  it  funny?  "  she  laughed. 

"  You  're  a  damn  game  little  kid." 

She  found  that  the  words  pleased  her  more  than 
anything  he  had  yet  said. 

They  sped  on  in  silence.  Helen  found  occupation 
enough  in  the  sheer  delight  of  going  so  swiftly 
through  a  blur  of  light  and  darkness  toward  an  un- 


DIVERGING  ROADS  133 

known  end.  She  did  not  resist  the  fascination  of 
the  man  beside  her;  there  was  exhilaration  in  his 
being  there,  security  in  his  necessary  attention  to 
handHng  the  big  machine.  They  passed  the  park 
gates,  and  the  car  leaped  like  a  live  thing  at  the 
touch  of  a  whip,  plunging  faster  down  the  smooth 
road  between  dark  masses  of  shrubbery.  A  clean, 
moist  odor  of  the  forest  mixed  with  a  salt  tang 
in  the  air,  and  the  headlights  were  like  funnels  of 
light  cutting  into  the  solid  night  a  space  for  them 
to  pass. 

"  Is  n't  it  wonderful !  "  Helen  sighed,  and  de- 
spised the  inadequacy  of  the  word. 

"  I  like  the  bright  lights  better  myself."  After  a 
pause,  he  added,  "  Country  bred,  are  n't  you  ?  " 
His  inflection  was  not  a  question. 

She  replied  in  the  same  tone. 

*'  College  man,  I  suppose." 

"  How  did  you  dope  that  ?  " 

"  '  Inhibitions,'  "  she  answered. 

"  What?  O-o-oh !  So  you  have  n't  been  forget- 
ting me?  " 

"  I  did  n't  forget  the  word,"  she  said.  "  I  looked 
it  up." 

"  Well,  make  up  your  mind  to  get  rid  of  'em?" 

*'  I  'd  get  rid  of  anything  I  did  n't  want." 

"  Going  to  get  rid  of  me?  " 

*'  No,"  she  said  coolly.     "  I  '11  just  let  you  go." 

It  struck  her  that  she  was  utterly  mad.     She  had 


134  DIVERGING  ROADS 

never  dreamed  of   talking  like   that  to  any  one. 
What  was  she  doing  and  why? 

"  Don't  you  believe  it  one  minute !  "  His  voice 
had  the  dominating  ring  again,  and  suddenly  she 
felt  that  she  had  started  a  force  she  was  powerless  to 
control.  The  situation  was  out  of  her  hands,  run- 
ning away  with  her.  Her  only  safety  was  silence, 
and  she  shrank  into  it. 

When  the  car  stopped  she  jumped  out  of  it  quickly 
and  attached  herself  to  momma.  In  the  hot,  smoky 
room  they  found  a  table  at  the  edge  of  the  dancing 
floor,  and  she  slipped  into  the  chair  farthest  from 
him,  ordering  lemonade.  Exhilaration  left  her; 
again  she  could  think  of  nothing  that  seemed  worth 
saying,  and  she  felt  his  amused  eyes  upon  her  while 
she  sat  looking  at  the  red  crepe  paper  decorations 
overhead  and  the  maze  of  dancing  couples.  It  was 
some  time  before  the  rhythm  of  the  music  began 
to  beat  in  her  blood  and  the  scene  lost  its  tawdri- 
ness  and  became  gay. 

"  Everybody  's  doing  it  now !  '*  Louise  hummed, 
looking  at  him  under  her  long  lashes.  The  others 
were  dancing,  and  the  three  sat  alone  at  the  table. 
"  Everybody 's  doing  it,  doing  it,  doing  it.  Every- 
body 's  doing  it,  but  you  —  and  me.'* 

"  Go  and  grab  off  somebody  else,"  he  answered 
good-humoredly.  "  I  'm  dancing  with  Helen  — 
when  she  gets  over  being  afraid  of  me."  He  lighted 
a  cigarette  casually. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  135 

"  Oh,  really  ?  I  'd  love  to  dance.  Only  I  don't 
do  it  very  well." 

His  arms  were  around  her  and  they  were  dancing 
before  she  perceived  how  neatly  she  had  risen  to 
the  bait.     She  stumbled  and  lost  a  step  in  her  fury. 

''  No  ?  Not  afraid  of  me  ?"  he  laughed.  "  Well, 
don't  be.     What 's  the  use?  " 

"  It  is  n't  that,"  she  said.  "  Only  I  don't  know 
how  to  play  your  game.  And  I  don't  want  to  play 
it.     And  I  'm  not  going  to.     You  're  too  clever." 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  he  said,  and  his  arm  tightened. 
They  missed  step  again,  and  she  lost  the  swing  of 
the  music.  "  Let  yourself  go,  relax,"  he  ordered. 
"  Let  the  music  —  that 's  better." 

They  circled  the  floor  again,  but  her  feet  were 
heavy,  and  the  knowledge  that  she  was  dancing 
badly  added  to  her  effort.  Phrases  half  formed 
themselves  in  her  mind  and  escaped.  She  wanted 
to  be  able  to  carry  off  the  situation  well,  to  make 
her  meaning  clear  in  some  graceful,  indirect  way, 
but  she  could  not. 

"  It 's  this  way,"  she  said.  "  I  'm  not  your  kind. 
Maybe  I  talked  that  way  for  a  while,  but  I  'm  not 
really.  I  —  well  —  I  'm  not.  I  wish  you  'd  leave 
me  alone.     I  really  do." 

The  music  ended  with  a  crash,  and  two  thumps  of 
many  feet  echoed  the  last  two  notes.  He  still  held 
her  close,  and  she  felt  that  inexplicable  charm  like 
the  attraction  of  a  magnet  for  steel. 


136  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"You  really  do?**  His  tone  thrilled  her  with 
an  intoxicating  warmth.  The  smile  in  his  eyes  was 
both  caressing  and  confident.  Consciously  she  kept 
back  the  answering  smile  it  commanded,  looking  at 
him  gravely. 

"  I  really  do." 

"  All  right."  His  quick  acquiescence  was  exactly 
what  she  had  wanted,  and  it  made  her  unhappy. 
They  walked  back  to  the  table,  and  for  hours  she 
was  very  gay,  watching  him  dance  with  momma 
and  Louise.  She  crowded  into  the  tonneau  during 
their  quick,  restless  dashes  from  one  dancing  place 
to  the  next.  She  laughed  a  great  deal,  and  when 
they  met  Duddy  and  Bob  somewhere  a  little  after 
midnight  she  danced  with  each  of  them.  But  she 
felt  that  having  a  good  time  was  almost  as  hard 
work  as  earning  a  living. 

It  was  nearly  two  weeks  before  she  went  out 
again  with  momma  and  Louise,  and  this  time  she 
did  not  see  him  at  all.  Louise  was  astonished  by 
his  failure  to  telephone. 

"  What  in  the  world  did  you  do  with  that  Ken- 
nedy man?"  she  wanted  to  know.  "You  must 
have  been  an  awful  boob.  Why,  he  was  simply 
dippy  about  you.  Believe  me,  I  'd  have  strung  him 
along  if  I  *d  had  your  chance.  And  a  machine  like 
a  palace  car,  too !  "  she  mourned. 

"  Oh,  well,  baby,  Helen  does  n't  know  much  about 
handling  men,"  momma  comforted  her.     "  She  did 


DIVERGING  ROADS  137 

the  best  she  could.  You  never  can  tell  about  'em, 
anyway.     And  maybe  he  's  out  of  town." 

But  this  was  not  true,  for  Louise  had  seen  him 
only  that  afternoon  with  a  stunning  girl  in  a  million 
dollars'  worth  of  sables. 

Helen  was  swept  by  cross-currents  of  feeling. 
She  told  herself  that  she  did  not  care  what  he  did. 
She  repeated  this  until  she  saw  that  the  repetition 
proved  its  untruth.  Then  she  let  her  imagination 
follow  him.  But  it  could  do  this  only  blindly. 
She  could  picture  his  home  only  by  combining  the 
magnificence  of  the  St.  Francis  with  scraps  from 
novels  she  had  read,  and  while  she  could  see  him 
running  up  imposing  steps,  passing  through  a  great 
door  and  handing  his  coat  to  a  dignified  man  servant, 
either  a  butler  or  a  footman,  she  could  not  follow 
him  further.  She  could  see  him  with  a  beautiful 
girl  at  a  table  in  a  private  room  of  a  cafe ;  there  were 
no  longer  any  veils  between  her  and  that  side  of  a 
man's  life,  and  she  no  longer  shrank  from  facing  the 
world  as  it  exists.  But  she  knew  that  this  was  only 
one  of  his  many  interests  and  occupations.  She 
would  have  liked  to  know  the  others. 

She  turned  to  thoughts  of  Paul  as  one  comes  from 
a  dark  room  into  clear  light.  At  times  she  felt  an 
affection  for  him  that  made  her  present  life  seem 
like  a  feverish  dream.  She  imagined  herself  living 
in  a  pretty  little  house  with  him.  There  would  be 
white  curtains  at  the  windows  and  roses  over  the 


138  DIVERGING  ROADS 

porch.  When  the  housework  was  all  beautifully 
done  she  would  sit  on  the  porch,  embroidering  a 
centerpiece  or  a  dainty  waist.  The  gate  would  click, 
and  he  would  come  up  the  walk,  his  feet  making  a 
crunching  sound  on  the  gravel.  She  would  run  to 
meet  him.  It  had  been  so  long  since  she  had  seen 
him  that  his  face  was  vague.  When  with  an  effort 
she  brought  from  her  memory  the  straight-looking 
blue  eyes,  the  full,  firm  lips,  the  cleft  in  his  chin, 
she  saw  how  boyish  he  looked.  He  was  a  dear 
boy. 

The  days  went  by,  each  like  the  day  before.  The 
rains  had  begun.  Every  morning,  in  a  ceaseless 
drizzle  from  gray  skies,  she  rushed  down  a  side- 
walk filmed  with  running  water  and  crowded  into  a 
street-car  jammed  with  irritated  people  and  dripping 
umbrellas.  When  she  reached  the  office  her  feet 
were  wet  and  cold  and  the  hems  of  her  skirts  flapped 
damply  at  her  ankles. 

She  had  a  series  of  colds,  and  her  head  ached 
while  she  copied  endless  quotations  from  relentlessly 
clicking  sounders.  At  night  she  rode  wearily  home, 
clinging  to  a  strap,  and  crawled  into  bed.  Her 
muscles  ached  and  her  throat  was  sore.  Momma, 
even  in  the  scurry  of  dressing  for  the  evening, 
stopped  to  bring  her  a  glass  of  hot  whiskey-and- 
water,  and  she  drank  it  gratefully.  When  at  last 
she  was  alone  she  read  awhile  before  going  to  sleep. 
One  forgot  the  dreariness  of  living,  swept  away 


DIVERGING  ROADS  139 

into  an  artificial  world  of  adventure  and  ro- 
mance, 

Christmas  came,  and  she  recklessly  spent  all  her 
money  for  gifts  to  send  home;  socks  and  ties  and  a 
shaving  cup  for  her  father,  a  length  of  black  silk 
and  a  ten-dollar  gold  piece  for  her  mother,  hair  rib- 
bons and  a  Carmen  bracelet  for  Mabel,  a  knife  and 
a  pocket-book  with  a  two-dollar  bill  in  it  for  Tommy. 
They  made  a  large,  exciting  bundle,  and  when  she 
stood  in  line  at  the  post-office  she  pictured  happily 
the  delight  there  would  be  when  it  was  opened. 
She  hated  work  with  a  hatred  that  increased  daily, 
but  there  was  a  deep  satisfaction  in  feeling  that 
she  could  do  such  things  as  this  with  money  she 
herself  had  earned. 

The  brokers  at  the  Merchants'  Exchange  gave 
her  twenty  dollars  at  Christmas,  and  with  this  she 
bought  a  gilt  vanity-case  for  Louise,  gloves  for 
momma,  and  Paul's  present.  She  thought  a  long 
time  about  that  and  at  last  chose  a  monogrammed 
stick-pin,  with  an  old  English  "  P  "  deeply  cut  in 
the  gold. 

He  sent  her  a  celluloid  box  lined  with  puffed 
pink  sateen,  holding  a  comb  and  brush  set.  It  made 
a  poor  showing  among  the  flood  of  presents  that 
poured  in  for  momma  and  Louise,  but  she  would 
have  been  ashamed  of  being  ashamed  of  it  How- 
ever, she  let  them  think  it  came  from  her  mother. 
She  had  not  told  them  about  Paul,  feeling  a  dim 


I40  DIVERGING  ROADS 

necessity  of  shielding  that  part  of  her  Hfe  from 
Louise's  comments. 

There  were  parties  every  night  Christmas  week, 
but  she  did  not  go  to  any  of  them.  She  was  in  the 
throes  of  grip,  and  though  the  work  at  the  office  was 
light  it  took  all  her  sick  energy.  Even  on  New 
Year's  night  she  stayed  at  home,  resisting  all  the 
urgings  of  Louise  and  momma,  who  told  her  she 
was  missing  the  time  of  her  life.  She  went  reso- 
lutely to  bed,  to  lie  in  the  darkness  and  realize  that 
it  was  New  Year's  night,  that  her  life  was  going  by 
and  she  was  getting  nothing  she  wanted.  "  It 's 
the  man  that  orders  what  he  wants  that  gets  it." 
Gilbert  Kennedy's  voice  came  back  to  her. 

Rain  was  beating  on  the  window-panes,  and 
through  the  sound  of  it  she  heard  the  distant  up- 
roar of  many  voices  and  a  constant  staccato  of  fire- 
works crackling  through  the  dripping  night  in  tri- 
umphant expression  of  the  inextinguishable  gaiety 
of  the  city.  She  thought  of  Paul.  So  much  had 
happened  since  she  saw  him,  so  much  had  come  be- 
tween them.  He  had  been  living  and  growing  older, 
too.  It  was  impossible  to  see  what  his  real  life  had 
been  through  his  matter-of-fact  letters,  chronicle  of 
where  he  had  been,  how  much  money  he  was  saving, 
on  which  Sundays  the  minister  had  had  dinner  at 
his  house.  Only  occasional  phrases  were  clear  in 
her  memory.  "  When  we  are  married  — "  She 
could  still  thrill  over  that.    And  he  always  signed 


DIVERGING  ROADS  141 

his  letters,  "  lovingly,  Paul/'  And  once,  speaking 
of  a  Sunday-school  picnic,  he  had  written,  "  I  wish 
you  had  been  there.  There  was  no  girl  that  could 
touch  you." 

There  was  comfort  and  warmth  in  the  thought 
that  he  loved  her.  When  she  saw  him  again  every- 
thing would  be  all  right.  She  went  to  sleep  resolv- 
ing that  she  would  work  hard,  save  her  money,  go 
home  for  a  visit  in  March  or  April,  and  ask  him  to 
come.  The  hills  would  be  green,  the  orchards  would 
be  iridescent  with  the  colors  of  spring,  and  she 
would  wear  a  thin  white  dress  — 

In  February  her  mother  wrote  and  asked  for 
more  money. 

Old  Nell  died  last  week.  Tommy  found  her  dead  in  the 
pasture  when  he  went  to  get  the  cows.  We  will  have  to 
have  a  new  horse  for  the  spring  plowing,  and  your  father 
has  found  a  good  six-year-old,  blind  in  one  eye,  that  we 
can  get  cheap.  We  will  have  to  have  sixty  dollars,  and  if 
you  can  spare  it,  it  will  come  in  very  handy.  We  would 
pay  you  back  later.  I  would  not  ask  you  for  it  only  you 
are  making  a  good  salary,  and  I  would  rather  get  it  from 
you  than  from  the  bank.  It  would  be  only  a  loan,  for  I 
would  not  ask  you  to  give  it  to  us.  If  you  can  let  us  have 
it,  please  let  me  know  right  away. 

She  had  saved  thirty  dollars  and  had  just  drawn 
her  half -month's  pay.  Momma  would  gladly  wait 
for  her  share  of  the  month's  expenses.  As  soon  as 
she  was  through  work  she  went  to  the  post-ofiice 


142  DIVERGING  ROADS 

and  got  a  money-order  for  sixty  dollars.  She  felt 
a  fierce  pride  in  being  able  to  do  it,  and  she  was 
glad  to  know  that  she  was  helping  at  home,  but  there 
was  rage  in  her  heart. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  fate  was  against  her,  that 
she  would  go  on  working  forever,  and  never  get 
anything  she  wanted.  She  saw  weeks  and  months 
and  years  of  work  stretching  ahead  of  her  like  the 
interminable  series  of  ties  in  a  railroad  track,  van- 
ishing in  as  barren  a  perspective. 

For  nearly  three  years  her  whole  life  had  been 
work.  Those  few  evenings  at  the  cafes  had  been 
her  only  gaiety.  She  had  copied  innumerable 
market  quotations,  sent  uncounted  messages,  been  a 
mere  machine,  and  for  what  ?  She  did  not  want  to 
work,  she  wanted  to  live. 

That  night  she  went  to  the  beach  with  the  crowd. 
Bob  was  there  and  Duddy  and  a  score  of  others 
she  had  met  in  cafes.  There  again  was  the  stir  of 
shifting  colors  under  brilliant  lights,  the  eddy  and 
swirl  of  dancers,  sparkling  eyes,  white  hands,  a  glim- 
mer of  rings,  perfume,  laughter,  and  through  it  all 
the  music,  throbbing,  swaying,  blending  all  sensa- 
tions into  one  quickening  rhythm,  one  exhilarating 
vibration  of  nerves  and  spirit.  Helen  felt  weari- 
ness slip  from  her  shoulders;  she  felt  that  she  was 
soaring  like  a  lark ;  she  could  have  burst  into  song. 

She  danced.  She  danced  eagerly,  joyously,  car- 
ried by  the  music  as  by  the  crest  of  a  wave.     Re- 


DIVERGING  ROADS  143 

partee  slipped  from  her  lips  as  readily  as  from 
Louise's ;  she  found  that  it  did  not  matter  what  one 
said,  only  that  one  said  it  quickly;  her  salHes  were 
met  by  applauding  laughter.  In  the  automobile, 
dashing  from  place  to  place,  she  took  off  her  hat 
and,  facing  the  rushing  wind,  sang  aloud  for  pure 
joy. 

They  encountered  Gilbert  Kennedy  just  after  mid- 
night. She  turned  a  flushed,  radiant  face  to  him 
when  he  came  over  to  their  table.  She  felt  sure 
of  herself,  ready  for  anything.  He  leaned  past 
her  to  shake  hands  with  momma,  who  greeted  him 
in  chorus  with  Louise. 

"  Back  in  our  midst  once  more ! "  he  said  to 
Helen  over  his  shoulder.  He  brought  up  a  chair 
beside  hers,  and  she  saw  in  his  first  glance  that  he 
was  tired  and  moody.  She  felt  the  lessening  of  his 
magnetic  vitality;  it  seemed  to  have  drained  away 
through  some  inner  lesion.  He  ordered  straight 
Scotch  and  snapped  his  fingers  impatiently  until  the 
waiter  brought  it. 

"Who  you  with,  Bert?  Didn't  see  your  car 
outside,"  said  Duddy. 

"  Oh,  I  was  with  some  crowd.  Don't  know 
where  they  are.  Have  n't  got  the  car,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"  Stick  around  with  us  then."  "  I  bet  you  've 
been  hitting  the  high  spots,  and  smashed  it !  "  Bob 
and  Duddy  said  simultaneously.     But  the  orchestra 


144  DIVERGING  ROADS 

was  beginning  another  tune,  and  only  Helen  noticed 
that  in  the  general  pushing  back  of  chairs  he  did 
not  reply. 

She  shook  her  head  at  the  question  in  his  eyes,  and 
he  asked  no  one  else  to  dance.  Of  course,  after 
that,  she  had  to  refuse  the  others,  too,  and  they  were 
left  sitting  at  the  bare  table  ringed  with  the  im- 
prints of  wet  glasses.  An  unaccountable  depression 
was  settling  on  her;  she  felt  sorry  and  full  of  pity, 
she  did  not  know  why,  and  an  impulse  to  put  her 
hand  on  his  smooth,  fair  hair  surprised  and  horrified 
her. 

"  Rotten  life,  isn't  it?  '*  he  said.  It  was  a  tone 
so  new  in  him  that  she  did  not  know  how  to  reply. 

"  I  *m  sorry,"  she  answered. 

"  Sorry?     Good  Lord,  what  for?'* 

"  I  don't  know.  I  just  am.  I  'm  sorry  for  — 
whatever  it  is  that 's  happened.  "  She  saw  that  she 
had  made  a  mistake,  and  the  remnant  of  her  exhila- 
ration fluttered  out  like  a  spent  candle.  She  sat 
looking  at  the  dancers  in  silence,  and  they  appeared 
to  her  peculiar  and  curious,  going  round  and  round 
with  terrific  energy,  getting  nowhere.  The  music 
had  become  an  external  thing,  too,  and  she  observed 
the  perspiring  musicians  working  wearily,  with 
glances  at  the  clock. 

"  Funny,"  she  said  at  length. 

"What?" 

"  All  these  people  —  and  me,  too  —  doing  this 


DIVERGING  ROADS  145 

kind  of  thing.  We  don't  get  anything  out  of  it. 
Whatdo  wedoit  for?" 

"  Oh,  safety-valve.  Watts  discovered  the  steam- 
engine  on  the  principle."     His  voice  was  very  tired. 

The  more  she  considered  the  idea,  the  more  her 
admiration  for  him  grew.  She  was  not  in  the  least 
afraid  of  him  now;  she  was  eager  to  talk  to  him. 
Her  hand  went  out  detainingly  when  he  rose,  but 
he  disregarded  it.  "  So  long,"  he  said  carelessly, 
and  she  saw  that,  absorbed  in  some  preoccupation, 
he  hardly  knew  that  she  was  there.  She  let  him  go 
and  sat  turning  an  empty  glass  betwen  her  fingers, 
lost  in  speculations  concerning  him.  Though  she 
spent  many  of  her  evenings  at  the  beach  during  sev- 
eral weeks,  she  did  not  see  him  again,  and  she 
heard  one  night  that  he  had  gone  broke  and  left 
town. 

She  could  not  believe  that  disaster  had  conquered 
him.  That  last  meeting  and  his  disappearance  had 
increased  the  charm  he  had  for  her.  Her  mind 
recurred  to  him,  drawn  by  an  irresistible  fascination. 
She  had  only  to  brood  on  the  memory  of  him  for 
a  moment  and  a  thrill  ran  through  her  body.  It 
could  not  be  that  she  loved  him.  Why,  she  did  not 
even  know  him. 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  March  Paul  came  to  see  her. 
It  had  been  a  hard  day  at  the  office.  A  mis- 
take had  been  made  in  a  message,  and  a  furious 
broker,  asserting  that  it  had  cost  him  thousands  of 
dollars,  that  she  was  at  fault,  that  he  was  going  to 
sue  the  telegraph  company,  had  pounded  the  counter 
and  refused  to  be  quieted.  All  day  she  was  over- 
whelmed with  a  sense  of  disaster.  It  would  be 
months  before  the  error  was  traced,  and  alternately 
she  recalled  distinctly  that  she  had  sent  the  right 
word  and  remembered  with  equal  distinctness  that 
she  had  sent  the  wrong  one. 

Dots  and  dashes  jumbled  together  in  her  mind. 
She  was  exhausted  at  four  o'clock,  and  thought 
eagerly  of  a  hot  bath  and  the  soothing  softness  of 
a  pillow.  Slumped  in  the  corner  of  a  street-car, 
she  doggedly  endured  its  jerks  and  jolts,  keeping  a 
grip  on  herself  with  a  kind  of  inner  tenseness  until 
the  moment  when  she  could  relax. 

Louise  was  hanging  over  the  banister  on  the  upper 
landing  when  she  entered  the  hall  of  the  apart- 
ment-house. Her  excited  stage-whisper  met  Helen 
on  the  stairs. 

146 


DIVERGING  ROADS  147 

'*  Sh-sh-sh !     Somebody 's  here  to  see  you." 

"  Who  ?  "  The  event  was  unusual,  but  Louise's 
manner  was  even  more  so.  Vague  pictures  of  her 
family  and  accident  and  death  flashed  through  Hel- 
en's startled  mind. 

He  said  his  name  was  Masters.  He  was  an  awful 
stick.  Momma  'd  sent  Louise  out  to  give  her  the 
high  sign.  Louise's  American  Beauty  man  was  in 
town,  and  there  was  going  to  be  a  party  at  the 
Cliff  House.  They  could  sneak  in  and  dress  and 
beat  it  out  the  back  way.  Momma  had  the  guy  in 
the  living-room.     He'd  simply  spoil  the  party. 

"  Aw,  have  a  heart,  Helen.  Momma  '11  get  rid 
of  him  somehow.     You  can  fix  it  up  afterward." 

Helen's  first  thought  was  that  Paul  must  not  see 
her  looking  like  this,  disheveled,  her  hair  untidy, 
and  her  fingers  ink-stained.  Her  heart  was  beating 
fast,  and  there  was  a  fluttering  in  her  wrists.  It 
was  incredible  that  he  was  really  near,  separated 
from  her  only  by  a  partition.  The  picture  of  him 
sitting  there  a  victim  of  momma's  efforts  to  enter- 
tain him  was  ghastly  and  at  the  same  time  hyster- 
ically comic.  She  tiptoed  in  breathless  haste  past 
the  closed  door  and  gained  the  safety  of  the  bed- 
room, Louise's  kimono  rustling  behind  her.  The 
first  glance  into  the  mirror  was  sickening.  She  tore 
off  her  hat  and  coat  and  let  down  her  hair  with 
trembling  fingers. 

"  He  's  —  an  awful  good  friend.     I  must  see  him. 


148  DIVERGING  ROADS 

Heavens!  what  a  fright!  Be  an  angel  and  find 
me  a  clean  waist,"  she  whispered.  The  comb  shook 
in  her  hand;  hairpins  slipped  through  her  fingers; 
the  waist  she  found  lacked  a  button,  and  every  pin 
in  the  room  had  disappeared.  It  was  an  eternity 
before  she  was  ready,  and  then,  leaning  for  one 
last  look  in  the  glass,  she  was  dissatisfied.  There 
was  no  color  in  her  face;  even  her  lips  were  only 
palely  pink.  She  bit  them;  she  rubbed  them  with 
stinging  perfume  till  they  reddened;  then  with  a 
hurried  resolve  she  scrubbed  her  cheeks  with  Louise's 
rouge  pad.  That  was  better.  Another  touch  of 
powder ! 

"Do  I  look  all  right?" 

"Stunning!  Aw,  Helen,  come  through.  Who 
is  he?  You've  never  told  me  a  word."  Louise 
was  wild  with  curiosity. 

"Sh-sh!"  Helen  cautioned.  She  drew  a  deep 
breath  at  the  living-room  door.  Her  little-girl  shy- 
ness had  come  back  upon  her.  Then  she  opened  the 
door  and  walked  in. 

Momma,  in  her  kimono,  was  sitting  in  the  darkest 
corner  of  the  room,  with  her  back  toward  the  win- 
dow. Only  a  beaded  slipper  toe  and  some  inches 
of  silk  stocking  caught  the  light.  She  was  obviously 
making  conversation  with  painful  effort.  Paul  sat 
facing  her,  erect  in  a  stiff  chair,  his  eyes  fixed  po- 
litely on  a  point  over  her  shoulder.  He  rose  with 
evident  relief  to  meet  Helen. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  149 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Masters,"  she  said,  em- 
barrassed. 

"  Good  afternoon.''     They  shook  hands. 

"  I  'm  very  glad  to  see  you.  Won't  you  sit 
down?"  she  heard  herself  saying  inanely. 

Momma  rose,  clutching  her  kimono  around  her. 

"  Well,  I  '11  be  going,  as  I  have  a  very  important 
engagement,  and  you'll  excuse  me,  Mr.  Masters, 
I  'm  sure,"  she  said  archly.  "  So  charmed  to  have 
met  you,"  she  added  with  artificial  sweetness. 

The  closing  of  the  door  behind  her  left  them  fac- 
ing each  other  with  nothing  but  awkwardness  be- 
tween them.  He  had  changed  indefinably,  though 
the  square  lines  of  his  face,  the  honest  blue  eyes,  the 
firm  lips  were  as  she  remembered  them.  Under  the 
smooth-shaven  skin  of  his  cheeks  there  was  the  blue 
shadow  of  a  stubborn  beard.  He  appeared  pros- 
perous, but  not  quite  sure  of  himself,  in  a  well- 
made  broadcloth  suit,  and  he  held  a  new  black  derby 
hat  in  his  left  hand. 

"  I  'm  awfully  glad  to  see  you,"  she  managed  to 
say.  "  I  'm  —  so  surprised.  I  did  n't  know  you 
were  coming." 

"  I  sent  you  a  note  on  the  wires,"  he  replied.  "  I 
was  n't  sure  till  last  night  I  could  get  off." 

"  I  did  n't  get  it,"  she  said.  Silence  hung  over 
them  like  a  threat.  "  I  'm  sorry  I  did  n't  know.  I 
hope  you  did  n't  have  to  wait  long.  I  'm  glad 
you're  looking  so  well.     How  is  your  mother?" 


I50  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  She  's  all  right.     How  is  yours?  " 

"  She  's  very  well,  thank  you."  She  caught  her 
laugh  on  a  hysterical  note.  "  Well  —  how  do  you 
like  San  Francisco  weather?  '* 

His  bewilderment  faded  slowly  into  a  grin. 

"  It  is  rather  hard  to  get  started/'  he  admitted. 
"  You  look  different  than  I  thought  you  would, 
somehow.  But  I  guess  we  have  n't  changed  much 
really.     Can't  we  go  somewhere  else?" 

She  read  his  dislike  of  momma  in  the  look  he 
cast  at  her  living-room.  It  was  natural,  no  doubt. 
But  a  quick  impulse  of  loyalty  to  these  people  who 
had  been  so  kind  to  her  illogically  resisted  it.  This 
room,  with  its  close  air,  its  film  of  dust  over  the 
table- tops,  its  general  air  of  neglect  emphasized 
by  the  open  candy  box  on  the  piano-stool  and  the 
sooty  papers  in  the  gas  grate,  was  nevertheless  much 
pleasanter  than  the  place  where  she  had  been  liv- 
ing when  she  met  Louise. 

"  I  don't  know  just  where,"  she  replied.  "  Of 
course,  I  don't  know  the  city  very  well  because  I 
work  all  day.     But  we  might  take  a  walk." 

There  was  a  scurry  in  the  hallway  when  she  op- 
ened the  door;  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Louise  in 
petticoat  and  corset-cover  dashing  from  the  bath- 
room to  the  bedroom.  She  hoped  that  Paul  had 
not  seen  it,  but  his  cheeks  were  red.  It  was  really 
absurd;  what  was  there  so  terrible  about  a  petticoat? 
He  should  have  known  better  than  to  come  to  the 


DIVERGING  ROADS  151 

house  without  telephoning,  anyway.  She  cast 
about  quickly  for  something  to  say. 

No,  he  answered,  he  could  not  stay  in  town  long, 
only  twenty- four  hours.  He  wanted  to  see  the 
superintendent  personally  about  the  proposition  of 
putting  in  a  spur-track  at  Ripley  for  the  loading  of 
melons.  There  were  —  her  thoughts  did  not  fol- 
low his  figures.  She  heard  vaguely  something  about 
irrigation  districts  and  water- feet  and  sandy  loam 
soil.     So  he  had  not  come  to  see  her ! 

Then  she  saw  that  he,  too,  was  talking  only  to 
cover  a  sense  of  strangeness  and  embarrassment  as 
sickening  as  her  own.  She  wished  that  they  were 
comfortably  sitting  down  somewhere  where  they 
could  talk.  It  was  hard  to  say  anything  interesting 
while  they  walked  down  bleak  streets  with  the  wind 
snatching  at  them. 

"  Whew !  You  certainly  have  some  wind  in  this 
town !  '*  he  exclaimed.  At  the  top  of  Nob  Hill  its 
full  force  struck  them,  whipping  her  skirts  and  tug- 
ging at  her  hat  while  she  stood  gazing  down  at  the 
gray  honeycomb  of  the  city  and  across  it  at  masses 
of  sea  fog  rolling  over  Twin  Peaks.  "  It  gives  me 
an  appetite,  I  tell  you !  Where  '11  we  go  for  sup- 
per?" 

She  hesitated.  She  could  not  imagine  his  being 
comfortable  in  any  of  the  places  she  knew.  Music 
and  brilliant  lights  and  cabaret  singers  would  be 
another  barrier  between  them  added  to  those  she 


152  DIVERGING  ROADS 

longed  to  break  down.  She  said  that  she  did  not 
know  the  restaurants  very  well,  and  his  surprise  re- 
minded her  that  she  had  written  him  pages  about 
them.  She  stammered  over  an  explanation  she 
could  not  make. 

There  were  so  many  small,  unimportant  things 
that  were  important  because  they  could  not  be  ex- 
plained, and  that  could  not  be  explained  without 
making  them  more  important  than  they  were.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  the  months  since  they  had  last 
met  were  full  of  them. 

She  took  refuge  in  talking  about  her  work.  But 
she  saw  that  he  did  not  like  that  subject.  He  said 
briefly  that  it  was  a  rotten  shame  she  had  to  do  it, 
and  obviously  hoped  to  close  the  theme  with  that  re- 
mark. 

They  found  a  small  restaurant  down  town,  and 
after  he  had  hung  up  his  hat  and  they  had  discussed 
the  menu,  she  sat  turning  a  fork  over  and  over  and 
wondering  what  they  could  talk  about.  She  man- 
aged to  find  something  to  say,  but  it  seemed  to  her 
that  their  conversation  had  no  more  flavor  than  saw- 
dust, and  she  was  very  unhappy. 

"  Look  here,  Helen,  why  did  n*t  you  tell  those 
folks  where  you  live  that  we  ^re  engaged  ?  "  There 
was  nothing  but  inquiry  in  his  tone,  but  the 
words  were  a  bombshell.  She  straightened  in  her 
chair. 

"  Why  — "     How  could  she  explain  that  vague 


DIVERGING  ROADS  153 

feeling  about  keeping  it  from  Louise  and  momma? 
"  Why  —  I  don't  know.     What  was  the  use  ?  " 

"  What  was  the  use  ?  Well,  for  one  thing,  it 
might  have  cleared  things  up  a  little  for  some  of 
these  other  fellows  that  know  you." 

What  had  momma  told  him  ?  "I  don't  know  any 
men  that  would  be  interested,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  you  never  can  tell  about  that,"  he  an- 
swered reasonably.  "  I  was  sort  of  surprised, 
that 's  all.  I  had  an  idea  girls  talked  over  such 
things." 

She  was  tired,  and  in  the  dull  little  restaurant 
there  was  nothing  to  stimulate  her.  The  common- 
place atmosphere,  the  warmth,  and  the  placidity  of 
his  voice  lulled  her  to  stupidity. 

"  I  suppose  they  do,"  she  said.  "  They  usually 
talk  over  their  rings."  She  was  alert  instantly, 
filled  with  rage  at  herself  and  horror.  His  cheeks 
grew  dully  red.  "  I  did  n't  mean  — "  she  cried,  and 
the  words  clashed  with  his.  "  If  that 's  it  I  '11  get 
you  a  ring." 

"  Oh,  no !  No !  I  don't  want  you  to.  I 
would  n't  think  of  taking  it." 

"Of  course  you  know  I  haven't  had  money 
enough  to  get  you  a  good  one.  I  thought  about  it 
pretty  often,  but  I  did  n't  know  you  thought  it  was 
so  important.  Seems  to  me  you  've  changed  an 
awful  lot  since  I  knew  you." 

The  protest,  the  explanation,  was  stopped  on  her 


154  DIVERGING  ROADS 

lips.  It  was  true.  She  felt  that  they  had  both 
changed  so  much  that  they  might  be  strangers. 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?  "  she  asked  miserably. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  he  answered  hon- 
estly, pain  in  his  voice.  "  I  've  been  —  about  crazy 
sometimes,  thinking  about  —  things,  wanting  to  see 
you  again.  And  now  —  I  don't  know  —  you  seem 
so  different,  sitting  there  with  paint  on  your  face  — " 
Her  hand  went  to  her  cheek  as  if  it  stung  her  — 
"  and  talkmg  about  rings.  You  did  n't  use  to  be  like 
this  a  bit,  Helen,"  he  went  on  earnestly.  "  It 
seems  to  me  as  if  you  'd  completely  lost  track  of 
your  better  self  somehow.     I  wish  you  'd  — " 

This  struck  from  her  a  spark  of  anger. 

"  Please  don't  begin  preaching  at  me !  I  'm  per- 
fectly able  to  take  care  of  myself.  Really,  Paul, 
you  just  don't  understand.  It  is  n't  anything, 
really,  a  little  bit  of  rouge.  I  only  put  it  on  because 
I  was  tired  and  did  n't  have  any  color.  And  I  did  n't 
mean  it  about  the  ring.  I  just  did  n't  think  what 
I  was  saying.  But  I  guess  you  're  right.  I  guess 
neither  of  us  knows  the  other  any  more." 

She  felt  desolate,  abandoned  to  dreariness. 
Everything  seemed  all  wrong  with  the  world.  She 
listened  to  Paul's  assurances  that  he  knew  she  was 
all  right,  whatever  she  did,  that  he  did  n't  care  any- 
how, that  she  suited  him.  But  they  sounded  hollow 
in  her  ears,  for  she  knew  that  beneath  them  was  the 
same  uncertainty  she  felt.     When,  flushing,  he  said 


DIVERGING  ROADS  155 

again  that  he  would  get  her  a  ring,  she  answered 
that  she  did  not  want  one,  and  they  said  no  more 
about  it.  The  abyss  between  them  was  left  bridged 
only  by  the  things  they  had  not  said,  fearing  to  make 
it  forever  impassable  by  saying  them. 

He  left  her  at  her  door  promptly  at  the  proper 
hour  of  ten.  There  was  a  moment  in  which  a  blind 
feeling  in  her  reached  out  to  him;  she  felt  that 
they  had  taken  hold  of  the  situation  by  the  wrong 
end  somehow,  that  everything  would  be  all  right  if 
they  had  had  a  chance. 

He  supposed  she  could  n't  take  the  morning  off. 
He  had  to  see  the  superintendent,  but  maybe  they 
could  manage  an  hour  or  two.  No,  she  had  to  work. 
With  the  threat  of  that  missent  message  hanging 
over  her  she  dared  not  further  spoil  her  record 
by  taking  a  day  off  without  notice.  And  she  knew 
that  one  or  two  hours  more  could  not  possibly  make 
up  the  months  of  estrangement  between  them. 

"  Well,  good-night." 

"  Good-night."  Their  hands  clung  a  moment  and 
dropped  apart.  If  only  he  would  say  something,  do 
something,  she  did  not  know  what.  But  awkward- 
ness held  him  as  it  did  her. 

"  Good-night."  The  broad  door  swung  slowly 
shut  behind  her.  Even  then  she  waited  a  moment, 
with  a  wild  impulse  to  run  after  him.  But  she 
climbed  the  stairs  instead  and  went  wearily  to  bed, 
her  heart  aching  with  a  sense  of  irreparable  loss. 


156  DIVERGING  ROADS 

In  the  morning  she  was  still  very  tired,  and  while 
she  drove  herself  through  the  day's  work  she  told 
herself  that  probably  she  had  never  really  loved  him. 
"  Unless  you  can  love  as  the  angels  may,  with  the 
breadth  of  heaven  betwixt  you,'*  she  murmured,  re- 
membering the  volume  of  poetry  she  had  found  on 
a  library  shelf.  She  had  thrilled  over  it  when  she 
read  it,  dreaming  of  him;  now  it  seemed  to  her  a 
grim  and  almost  cynical  test.  Well,  she  might  as 
well  face  a  lifetime  of  work.     Lots  of  women  did. 

She  managed  to  do  this,  seeing  years  upon  years 
of  lonely  effort,  during  which  she  would  accumulate 
money  enough  to  buy  a  little  home  of  her  own. 
There  would  be  no  one  in  it  to  criticise  her  choice 
of  friends  or  say  that  she  painted.  That  remark 
clung  like  a  bur  in  her  mind.  Yes,  she  could  face 
a  lifetime  in  which  no  one  would  have  the  right 
to  say  things  like  that ! 

But  when  she  went  home  she  found  that  she  could 
not  endure  an  evening  of  loneliness.  Louise  and 
momma  were  going  out,  and  she  was  very  gay  while 
she  dressed  to  go  with  them.  They  said  they  had 
never  seen  her  in  better  spirits. 

Unaccountably,  the  lights,  the  music,  the  atmos- 
phere of  gaiety,  did  not  get  into  her  blood  as  usual. 
At  intervals  she  had  moments  of  depression  that 
they  did  not  touch.  She  sat  isolated  in  the  crowd, 
sipping  her  lemonade,  feeling  that  nothing  in  the 
world  was  worth  while. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  157 

However,  she  went  again  the  next  night.  She  be- 
gan to  go  almost  as  frequently  as  momma  and 
Louise,  and  to  understand  the  unsatisfied  restlessness 
which  drove  Mrs.  Latimer  and  her  friends.  She 
was  tired  in  the  morning,  and  there  were  more  com- 
plaints of  her  work  at  the  office,  but  she  did  not 
care.  She  felt  recklessly  that  nothing  mattered,  and 
she  went  back  to  the  beach  resorts  as  a  thirsty  person 
will  tip  an  emptied  glass  in  which  perhaps  a  drop  re- 
mains. 

"  What  *s  the  matter,  little  one  ?  Got  a  grouch  ?  " 
said  Louise's  American  Beauty  man  one  night.  He 
was  jovial  and  bald ;  his  neck  bulged  over  the  back  of 
his  collar,  and  he  wore  a  huge  diamond  on  his  little 
finger.  Helen  did  not  like  him,  but  it  was  his  party. 
He  owned  the  big  red  car  in  which  they  had  come 
to  the  beach,  and  she  felt  that  his  impatient  reproach 
was  justified.     She  was  not  paying  her  way. 

"  Not  a  bit !  "  she  laughed.  "  Only  for  some  rea- 
son I  feel  like  a  cold  plum-pudding.*' 

"  What  you  need  's  brandy  sauce."  Duddy  said, 
appreciating  his  own  wit. 

"  You  mean  you  want  me  to  get  lit  up !  " 

"That's  the  idea!  Bring  on  the  booze,  let  joy 
be  unrefined!     Waiter,  rye  high-balls  all  around!" 

She  did  not  object ;  that  did  not  seem  worth  while, 
either.  When  the  glasses  came  she  emptied  hers 
with  the  rest,  and  her  spirits  did  seem  to  lighten  a 
little.     "  It  removes  inhibitions,"  Gilbert  Kennedy 


158  DIVERGING  ROADS 

had  said.  And  he  was  gone,  too.  If  he  were  only 
there  the  sparkle  of  life  would  come  back;  she  would 
be  exhilarated,  witty,  alive  to  her  finger-tips  once 
more  — 

The  crowd  was  moving  on  again.  She  went  with 
them  into  the  cool  night,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that 
life  was  nothing  but  a  moving  on  from  dissatisfac- 
tion to  dissatisfaction.  Squeezed  into  a  corner  of 
the  tonneau,  she  relapsed  into  silence,  and  it  was 
some  time  before  she  noticed  the  altered  note  in  the 
excitement  of  the  others. 

"  Give  'er  the  gas !  Let  'er  out !  Damn  it,  if  you 
let  'em  pass  —  !  "  the  car's  owner  was  shouting, 
and  the  machine  fled  like  a  runaway  thing.  Against 
a  blur  of  racing  sand  dunes  Helen  saw  a  long  gray 
car  creeping  up  beside  them.  "  You  're  going  to 
kill  us !  "  momma  screamed,  disregarded.  Helen, 
on  her  feet,  clinging  to  the  back  of  the  front  seat, 
yelled  with  the  others.  "  Beat  'im !  Beat  'im ! 
Y-a-a-ah!" 

Her  hat,  torn  from  her  head,  disappeared  in  the 
roaring  blur  behind  them.  Her  hair  whipped  her 
face.  She  was  wildly,  gloriously  alive.  "  Faster  — 
faster,  oh !  "  The  gray  car  was  gaining.  Inch  by 
inch  it  crawled  up  beside  them.  "  Can't  you  go 
faster?"  she  cried  in  a  bedlam  of  shouts.  Oh,  if 
only  her  hands  were  on  the  wheel!  It  was  unbear- 
able that  they  should  lose.  "  Give  'er  more  gas  — 
she'll  make  eighty-five!"  the  owner  yelled. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  159 

Everything  in  Helen  narrowed  to  the  challenge 
of  that  plunging  gray  car.  Its  passing  was  Hke  an 
intolerable  pulling  of  something  vital  from  her  grip. 
Pounding  her  hand  against  the  car-door  she  shrieked 
frantic  protests.  "  Don't  let  him  do  it !  Go  on ! 
Go  on !  "  The  gray  car  was  forging  inexorably 
past  them.  It  swerved.  Momma's  scream  was 
torn  to  ribbons  by  the  wind.  It  was  ahead  now, 
and  one  derisive  yell  from  its  driver  came  back  to 
them.     Their  speed  slowed. 

"  He  *s  turning  in  at  The  Tides.  Stop  there?" 
the  chauffeur  asked  over  his  shoulder. 

**  Yes,  damn  you !  Wha  'd  yuh  think  you  're 
driving,  a  baby-carriage?  You're  fired!"  his  em- 
ployer raged,  and  he  was  still  swearing  when  Helen, 
gasping  and  furious,  stumbled  from  the  running- 
board  against  Gilbert  Kennedy. 

"Good  Lord,  was  it  you?"  he  cried.  "Some 
race!  "  he  exulted  and  swinging  her  off  her  feet,  he 
kissed  her  gayly.  Something  wild  and  elemental  in 
her  rushed  to  meet  its  mate  in  him.  He  released 
her  instantly,  and  in  a  chorus  of  greetings,  "  Drinks 
on  me,  old  man !  "  "  Some  little  car  you  've  got !  " 
"  Come  on  in !  "  she  found  herself  under  a  glare  of 
light  in  the  swirl  and  glitter  of  The  Tides.  He  was 
beside  her  at  the  round  table,  and  her  heart  was 
pounding. 

"  No  —  no  —  this  is  on  me !  "  he  declared. 
"  Only  my  money  's  good  to-night.     I  'm  going  to 


i6o  DIVERGING  ROADS 

Argentine  to-morrow  on  the  water-wagon. 
What'll  you  have?" 

They  ordered,  helter-skelter,  in  a  clamor  of  sur- 
prise and  inquiry.  "  Argentine,  what  're  you 
giving  us !  "  "  What 's  the  big  idea  ?  "  "  You  're 
kidding!" 

"  On  the  level.  Argentine.  To-morrow.  Say, 
listen  to  me.  I  've  got  hold  of  the  biggest  proposi- 
tion that  ever  came  down  the  pike.  Six  million 
acres  of  land  —  good  land,  that  '11  raise  anything 
from  hell  to  breakfast.  Do  you  know  what  people 
are  paying  for  land  in  California  right  now?  I  '11 
tell  you.  Five  hundred,  six  hundred,  a  thousand 
dollars  an  acre.  And  I  've  got  six  million  acres  of 
land  sewed  up  in  Argentine  that  I  can  sell  for  fifty 
cents  an  acre  and  make  —  listen  to  what  I  'm  telling 
you  —  and  make  a  hundred  per  cent,  profit.  The 
Government 's  backing  me  —  they  'd  give  me  the 
whole  of  Argentine.  I  tell  you  there  's  millions  in 
it!" 

He  was  full  of  radiant  energy  and  power.  Her 
imagination  leaped  to  grasp  the  bigness  of  this  pro- 
ject. Thousands  of  lives  altered,  thousands  of 
families  migrating,  cities,  villages,  railroads  built. 
She  felt  his  kiss  on  her  lips,  and  that  old,  inexplic- 
able, magnetic  attraction.  The  throbbing  music 
beat  in  her  veins  Hke  the  voice  of  it.  He  smiled  at 
her,  holding  out  his  arms,  and  she  went  into  them 
with  recklessness  and  longing. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  i6i 

They  were  carried  together  on  waves  of  rhythm, 
his  arms  around  her,  her  loosened  hair  tumbling 
backward  on  her  neck. 

"  I  'm  mad  about  you !  " 

"  And  you  're  going  away  ? '' 

''Sorry?" 

"  Sorry  ?    Bored.     You  always  do !  " 

He  laughed. 

"Not  on  your  life!  This  time  I  'm  taking  you 
with  me." 

"  Oh,  but  I  would  n't  take  you  —  seriously !  " 

"  I  mean  it.     You  Ye  coming." 

"  I  'm  dreaming." 

"  I  mean  it."  His  voice  was  almost  savage.  **  I 
want  you." 

Fear  ran  like  a  challenge  through  her  exultation. 
She  felt  herself  a  small  fluttering  thing  against  his 
breast,  while  the  intoxicating  music  swept  them  on 
through  a  whirling  crowd.  His  face  so  close  to 
her  was  keen  and  hard,  his  eyes  were  reckless  as  her 
own  leaping  blood.  "  All  I  Ve  ever  needed  is  a  girl 
like  you.     You  're  not  going  to  get  away  this  time." 

"  Oh,  but  I  'm  perfectly  respectable !  " 

"All  right!     Marry  me." 

Behind  the  chaos  of  her  mind  there  was  the  tense, 
suffocating  hesitation  of  the  instant  before  a  diver 
leaves  the  spring-board  —  security  behind  him, 
ecstasy  ahead.  His  nearness,  his  voice,  the  light  in 
his  eyes,  were  all  that  she  had  been  wanting,  without 


i62  DIVERGING  ROADS 

knowing  it,  all  these  months.  The  music  stopped 
with  a  crash. 

He  stood,  as  he  had  stood  once  before,  his  arm 
still  tight  around  her,  and  in  a  flash  she  saw  that 
other  time  and  the  dreary  months  that  had  followed. 

"All  right.  It's  settled?"  There  was  the 
faintest  question  in  his  confident  voice. 

"  You  really  do  —  love  me  ?  " 

"  I  really  do.'*  His  eyes  were  on  hers,  and  she 
saw  his  confidence  change  to  certainty.  "  You  're 
game !  "  he  said,  and  kissed  her  triumphantly,  in  the 
crowded  room,  beneath  the  glaring  lights  and  crepe- 
paper  decorations.  She  did  not  care ;  she  cared  for 
nothing  in  the  world  now  but  him. 

"  Let 's  —  go  away  —  a  little  while  by  ourselves, 
out  where  it 's  dark  and  cool,"  she  said  hurriedly  as 
they  crossed  the  floor. 

"Not  on  your  life!  We're  going  to  have  the 
biggest  party  this  town  ever  saw !  "  he  answered 
exultantly  over  his  shoulder,  and  she  saw  his  enjoy- 
ment of  the  bomb  he  was  about  to  drop  upon  the  un- 
suspecting group  at  the  table.  "  The  roof  is  off  the 
sky  to-night.     This  is  a  wedding-party !  " 

Louise  and  momma  were  upon  her  with  excited 
cries  and  kisses,  and  Helen,  flushed,  laughing,  trying 
not  to  be  hysterical,  heard  his  voice  ordering  drinks, 
disposing  of  questions  of  license,  minister,  ring, 
rooms  at  the  St.  Francis,  champagne,  supper,  flowers. 
She  was  the  beggar  maid  listening  to  King  Cophetua. 


CHAPTER  XI 

AT  ten  o'clock  on  a  bright  June  morning  Helen 
Kennedy  tip-toed  across  a  darkened  bedroom 
and  closed  its  door  softly  behind  her.  Her  tenseness 
relaxed  with  a  sigh  of  relief  when  the  door  shut  with 
the  tiniest  of  muffled  clicks  and  the  stillness  behind 
its  panels  remained  unbroken. 

Sunlight  streamed  through  the  window^s  of  the 
sitting  room,  throwing  a  quivering  pattern  of  the 
lace  curtains  on  the  velvet  carpet  and  kindling  a  glow 
of  ruddy  color  where  it  touched  mahogany  chairs 
and  a  corner  of  the  big  library  table.  She  moved 
quickly  to  one  of  the  broad  windows  and  carefully 
raised  a  lower  sash.  The  low  roar  of  the  stirring 
city  rushed  in  like  the  noise  of  breakers  on  a  far- 
away beach,  and  clean,  tingling  air  poured  upon  her. 
She  breathed  it  in  deeply,  drawing  the  blue  silk 
negligee  closer  about  her  throat. 

The  two  years  that  had  whirled  past  since  she  be- 
came Bert  Kennedy's  wife  had  taught  her  many 
things.  She  had  drawn  from  her  experience  gen- 
eralities on  men,  women,  life,  which  made  her  feel 
immeasurably  older  and  wiser.  But  there  wxre 
problems  that  she  had  not  solved,  points  at  which 
she   felt  herself   at   fault,  and  they  troubled  her 

163 


i64  DIVERGING  ROADS 

vaguely  while  she  stood  twisting  the  cord  of  the 
window-shade  in  her  hand  and  gazing  out  at  the 
many- windowed  buildings  of  San  Francisco. 

She  had  learned  that  men  loved  women  for  being 
beautiful,  gay,  unexacting,  sweet-tempered  always, 
docile  without  being  bores.  She  had  learned  that 
men  were  infuriated  by  three  things;  questions, 
babies,  and  a  woman  who  was  ill.  She  had  learned 
that  success  in  business  depended  upon  "  putting  up 
a  front  "  and  that  a  woman's  part  was  to  help  in  that 
without  asking  why  or  for  what  end.  She  had 
learned  that  the  deepest  need  of  her  own  nature  was 
to  be  able  to  look  up  to  the  man  she  loved,  even 
though  she  must  go  down  on  her  own  knees  in  order 
to  do  it.  She  knew  that  she  adored  her  husband 
blindly,  passionately,  and  that  she  dared  not  open  her 
eyes  for  fear  she  would  cease  to  do  so. 

But  she  had  not  quite  been  able  to  fit  herself  into 
a  life  with  him.  She  had  not  learned  what  to  do 
with  these  morning  hours  while  he  was  asleep;  she 
had  not  learned  to  occupy  all  her  energies  in  useless 
activities  while  he  was  away;  in  a  word,  she  did 
not  know  what  to  do  with  the  part  of  her  life  he  did 
not  want,  and  she  could  not  compel  herself  to  be 
satisfied  in  doing  nothing  with  it. 

Gathering  up  the  trailing  silks  of  her  nightgown 
and  negligee  she  went  back  to  the  pile  of  magazines 
and  books  on  the  table.  She  did  not  exactly  want  to 
read ;  reading  seemed  to  her  as  out  of  place  in  the 


DIVERGING  ROADS  165 

morning  as  soup  for  breakfast.  But  she  could  not 
go  out,  for  at  any  moment  Bert  might  wake  and  call 
to  her,  and  she  could  not  dress,  for  he  saw  a  re- 
proach in  that,  and  was  annoyed.  She  turned  over 
the  books  uncertainly,  selecting  at  last  a  curious  one 
called  "  Pragmatism,''  which  had  fascinated  her 
when  she  dipped  into  its  pages  in  the  library.  She 
had  it  in  her  hand  when  the  door-bell  rang  loudly. 

She  stood  startled,  clutching  the  book  against  her 
breast.  Her  heart  beat  thickly,  and  the  color  faded 
from  her  face  and  then  poured  back  in  a  burning 
flush.  The  bell  rang  again  more  imperatively.  The 
very  sound  of  it  proclaimed  that  it  was  rung  by  a 
collector.  Was  it  the  taxi-cab  man,  the  tailor,  the 
collection  agency?  She  could  not  make  herself  go 
to  the  door,  and  the  third  long,  insistent  peal  of  the 
bell  wrung  her  like  the  tightening  of  a  rack.  It 
would  waken  Bert,  but  what  further  excuse  could  she 
make  to  the  grimly  insulting  man  she  visualized  on 
the  other  side  of  the  door?  The  bell  continued  to 
ring. 

After  a  long  time  it  was  silent,  and  she  heard  the 
slam  of  the  automatic  elevator's  door.  A  second 
later  she  heard  Bert's  voice. 

"  Helen !     Helen !    What  the  devil  ?  " 

She  opened  the  bedroom  door  and  stood  smiling 
brightly  on  the  threshold.  "  'Morning,  Bert  dear ! 
Behold,  the  early  bird's  gone  with  his  bill  still 
open !  " 


i66  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  Well,  why  the  hell  did  n't  you  open  the  door  and 
tell  him  to  stop  that  confounded  noise?  Were  you 
afraid  of  disturbing  him?" 

He  knew  how  it  hurt  her,  but  she  was  trained  not 
to  show  it.  It  appeared  to  her  now  that  she  had 
been  criminally  selfish  in  not  guarding  Bert's  sleep. 
She  saw  herself  a  useless  incumbrance  to  her  hus- 
band's career,  costing  him  a  great  deal  and  doing 
nothing  whatever  to  repay  him. 

**  That 's  the  trouble  —  it  would  n*t  have  dis- 
turbed him  a  bit !  "  she  laughed  bravely.  "  Some- 
body ought  to  catch  a  collector  and  study  the  species 
and  find  out  what  will  disturb  'em.  I  think  they  're 
made  of  cast-iron.  I  wonder  does  collecting  run  in 
families,  or  do  they  just  catch  'em  young  and  harden 
them." 

Sometimes  even  in  the  mornings  talk  like  this 
made  him  smile.  But  this  morning  he  only  growled 
unintelligibly,  turning  his  head  on  the  pillow. 
She  went  softly  past  the  bed  into  the  dressing- 
room. 

Bert  had  scouted  her  idea  of  getting  an  apart- 
ment with  a  kitchenette.  He  said  he  had  not  mar- 
ried a  cook,  and  he  hated  women  with  burned  com- 
plexions and  red  hands.  He  made  her  feel  plebeian 
and  common  in  preferring  a  home  to  a  hotel.  But 
she  had  found  when  she  interviewed  the  apartment- 
house  manager  and  had  spent  a  happy  morning  buy- 
ing a  coffee  percolator  and  dainty  cups  and  napkins, 


DIVERGING  ROADS  167 

that  he  did  not  mind  her  giving  him  coffee  in  bed. 
She  found  a  .deep  pleasure  in  doing  it. 

The  percolator  stood  behind  a  screen  in  the  dress- 
ing-room. She  turned  on  the  electric  switch  and, 
sitting  down  before  the  mirror,  took  off  her  lace  cap 
and  released  her  hair  from  its  curlers.  Bert  liked 
her  hair  curled.  Its  dark  mist  framed  a  face  that 
she  regarded  anxiously  in  the  mirror.  The  features 
had  sharpened  a  little,  and  her  complexion  had  lost 
a  shade  of  its  freshness.  Bert  would  insist  on  her 
drinking  with  him,  and  she  knew  she  must  do  it  to 
keep  her  hold  on  him.  A  sense  of  the  unreason- 
ableness of  men  in  loving  women  for  their  beauty 
and  then  destroying  it  came  into  her  mind,  nebulous, 
almost  a  thought.  But  she  disregarded  it,  from  a 
habit  she  had  formed  of  disregarding  many  things, 
and  began  combing  and  coiling  her  hair,  carefully 
inspecting  the  result  from  all  angles  with  a  hand 
mirror. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  came  into  the  bedroom, 
carrying  a  tray  and  kicking  the  trailing  lengths  of 
her  negligee  before  her.  She  held  the  tray  in  one 
hand  while  she  cleared  the  bedside  table  with  the 
other,  and  when  she  had  poured  the  coffee  she  went 
through  the  sitting-room  and  brought  in  the  morn- 
ing paper.  It  had  been  the  taxi-cab  man.  His  bill, 
stuck  in  the  crack  of  the  door,  fluttered  down  when 
she  opened  it,  and  after  glancing  at  the  figures 
hastily,  she  thrust  it  out  of  sight. 


i6S  DIVERGING  ROADS 

Bert  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  drinking  his  coffee, 
and  the  smile  he  threw  at  her  made  her  happy.  She 
curled  on  the  bed  beside  his  drawn-up  knees  and, 
taking  her  own  cup  from  the  tray,  smiled  at  him  in 
turn.  She  never  loved  him  more  than  at  such 
moments  as  this,  when  his  rumpled  hair  and  the  eyes 
miraculously  cleared  and  softened  by  sleep  made  him 
seem  almost  boyish. 

"Good?^' 

"  You  're  some  little  chef  when  it  comes  to  cof- 
fee !  "  he  replied.  "  It  hits  the  spot."  He  yawned. 
"  Good  Lord,  we  must  have  had  a  time  last  night ! 
Did  I  fight  a  chauffeur  or  did  I  dream  it  ?  " 

"  It  was  only  a  —  rather  a  —  dispute,"  she  said 
hurriedly. 

"  That  little  blond  doll  was  some  baby !  " 

He  could  not  intend  to  be  so  cruel,  not  even  to  pun- 
ish her  for  letting  the  bell  waken  him.  It  was  only 
that  he  liked  to  feel  his  own  power  over  her  He 
cared  only  for  women  that  he  could  control,  and  she 
knew  that  it  was  the  constant  struggle  between  them, 
in  which  he  was  always  victorious,  that  gave  her  her 
greatest  hold  on  him.  But  it  did  hurt  her  cruelly 
in  this  moment  of  security  to  be  reminded  of  the 
dangers  that  always  threatened  that  hold. 

*' Oh,  stunning!"  she  agreed,  keeping  her  eyes 
clear  and  smiling.  She  would  not  fall  into  the  error 
and  the  confession  of  being  catty.  But  she  felt  that 
he  perceived  her  motive,  and  she  knew  that  in  any 


DIVERGING  ROADS  169 

case  he  held  the  advantage  over  her.  She  was 
in  the  helpless  position  of  the  one  who  gives  the 
greater  love. 

They  sipped  their  coffee  in  silence  broken  only 
by  the  crackling  of  the  newspaper.  Then,  pushing 
it  away,  he  set  down  his  cup  and  leaned  back  against 
the  pillows,  his  hands  behind  his  head.  A  moment 
had  arrived  in  which  she  could  talk  to  him,  and  be- 
hind her  carefully  casual  manner  her  nerves  tight- 
ened. 

"  It  was  pretty  good  coffee,"  she  remarked. 
"  You  know,  I  think  it  would  be  fun  if  we  had  a 
real  place,  with  a  breakfast  room,  don't  you?  Then 
we  'd  have  grape-fruit  and  hot  muffins  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  too.  I  'd  like  to  have  a  place  like  that. 
And  then  we  *d  have  parties,"  she  added  hastily. 
"  We  could  keep  them  going  all  night  long  if  we 
wanted  to  in  our  own  place." 

He  yawned. 

"  Dream  on,  little  one,"  he  said.  But  his  voice 
was  pleasant. 

**  Now  listen,  dear.  I  really  mean  it.  We  could 
do  it.  It  would  n't  be  a  bit  more  trouble  to  you  than 
a  hotel,  really.  I  'd  see  that  it  was  n't.  I  really 
want  it  awfully  badly.  I  know  you  'd  like  it  if 
you  'd  just  let  me  try  it  once.  You  don't  know  how 
nice  I  'd  make  it  for  you." 

His  silence  was  too  careless  to  be  antagonistic, 
but  he  was  listening.     She  was  encouraged. 


I70  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  You  don't  realize  how  much  time  I  have  when 
you  're  gone.  I  could  keep  a  house  running  beauti- 
fully, and  you  'd  never  even  see  the  wheels  go  round. 
I—" 

"  A  house !  "  He  was  aroused.  "  Great  Scott, 
does  n't  it  cost  enough  for  the  two  of  us  to  live  as  it 
is?  Don't  you  make  my  life  miserable  whining 
about  bills  ?^' 

The  color  came  into  her  cheeks,  but  she  had  never 
risked  letting  herself  feel  resentment  at  anything 
he  chose  to  say.  She  laughed  quite  naturally. 
"  My  goodness!  "  she  said.  "  You  're  talking  as  if 
I  were  a  puppy !  I  've  never  whined  a  single  whine ; 
it 's  the  howling  of  the  collectors  you  've  heard. 
Let  'em  howl ;  it 's  good  enough  for  'em !  No,  but 
really,  sweetheart,  please  just  let  me  finish.  I  've 
thought  it  all  out.  You  don't  know  what  a  good 
manager  I  am."  She  hurried  on,  forestalling  the 
words  on  his  lips.  "  You  don't  know  how  much  I 
want  to  be  just  a  little  bit  of  help.  I  can't  be  much, 
I  know.     But  I  'm  sure  I  could  save  money  — " 

"Old  stuff!"  he  interrupted.  "It  isn't  the 
money  you  save ;  it 's  the  money  you  make  that 
counts." 

"  I  know !  "  she  agreed  quickly.  "  But  we  could 
get  a  house,  we  could  buy  a  house,  for  less  than 
we  're  paying  here  in  rent.  A  very  nice  house.  I 
would  n't  ask  you  to  do  it,  if  it  cost  any  more  than 
we  're  spending  now.    But  —  of  course  I  don't  know 


DIVERGING  ROADS  171 

anything  about  such  things  —  but  I  should  think  it 
would  give  you  an  advantage  in  business  if  you 
owned  some  property.  Would  n't  —  would  n't  it 
—  make  people  put  more  confidence — "  She 
faltered  miserably  at  the  look  in  his  eyes,  and  before 
he  could  speak  she  had  changed  her  tactics,  laugh- 
ing. 

'*  I  'm  just  trying  to  tease  you  into  giving  me 
something  I  want,  and  I  know  I  'm  awfully  silly 
about  it."  She  nestled  closer  to  him,  slipping  an  arm 
under  his  neck.  "  Oh,  honey,  it  would  n't  cost  any- 
thing at  all,  and  I  do  so  want  to  have  a  house  to  do 
things  to.  I  feel  so  —  so  unsettled,  living  this  way. 
I  feel  as  if  I  were  always  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a 
chair  waiting  to  go  somewhere  else.  And  I  'm  used 
to  working  and  —  and  managing  a  little  money.  I 
know  it  was  n't  much  money,  but  1  liked  to  do  it. 
You  're  letting  a  lot  of  perfectly  good  energy  go  to 
waste  in  me,  really  you  are." 

He  laughed,  tightening  his  arm  about  her  should- 
ers, and  for  one  deliriously  happy  moment  she 
thought  she  had  "won.  Then  he  kissed  her,  and 
before  he  spoke  she  knew  she  had  lost." 

"  I  should  worry !  You  're  giving  me  all  I  want," 
he  said,  and  there  was  different  delight  in  the  words. 
She  was  satisfying  him,  and  for  the  moment  it  was 
enough.  He  made  the  mistake  of  overconfidence  in 
emphasizing  a  point  already  won  and  so  losing  it. 

"  And  as  long  as  I  'm  giving  you  three  meals  a 


172  DIVERGING  ROADS 

day  and  glad  rags,  it  is  n't  up  to  you  to  worry.  I  '11 
look  after  the  finances  if  you  '11  take  care  of  your 
complexion.  It 's  beginning  to  need  it,"  he  added 
with  brutality  that  defeated  its  own  purpose.  Even 
in  her  pain  she  had  an  instant  of  seeing  him  clearly 
and  feeling  that  she  hated  him. 

She  slipped  to  her  feet  and  stood  trembling,  not 
looking  down  at  him. 

"  Well,  that 's  settled,  then,"  she  said  in  a  clear, 
hard  little  voice.  "  I  '11  go  and  dress.  It 's  nearly 
noon." 

She  felt  that  her  own  anger  was  threatening 
the  most  precious  thing  in  her  Hfe;  she  felt  that  she 
was  two  persons  who  were  tearing  each  other  to 
pieces.  With  a  blind  instinct  of  reaching  out  to 
him  for  help  she  turned  at  the  dressing-room  door. 
"  I  know  you  don't  realize  what  you  're  doing  to  me 
—  you  don't  realize  —  what  you  're  throwing 
away,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  cool  amusement  in  his  eyes. 

"Well,  but  why  the  melodrama?  "  he  asked  rea- 
sonably. She  stood  convicted  of  hysteria  and  stu- 
pidity, and  she  felt  again  his  superiority  and  his 
mastery  over  her. 

When  she  came  from  the  dressing-room  to  find 
him,  careless,  good-humored,  handsome,  tugging  his 
tie  into  its  knot  before  the  mirror,  she  knew  that 
nothing  mattered  except  that  she  loved  him  and  that 
she  must  hold  his  love  for  her.     She  came  close  to 


DIVERGING  ROADS  173 

him,  longing  for  a  reassurance  that  she  would  not 
ask.  Unless  he  gave  it  to  her,  left  her  with  it  to 
hold  in  her  heart,  she  would  be  tortured  by  miserable 
doubts  and  flickering  jealousies  until  he  came  back. 
She  would  be  tied  to  the  telephone,  waiting  for  a  call 
from  him,  trying  to  follow  in  her  imagination  the 
intricate  business  affairs  from  which  she  was  shut 
out,  telling  herself  that  it  was  business  and  nothing 
else  that  kept  him  from  her. 

"  Well,  by-by,*'  he  said,  putting  on  his  hat. 

"  Good-by."  Her  voice  was  like  a  detaining 
hand.     "  You  —  you  won't  be  gone  long?  " 

He  relented. 

"  I  'm  going  down  to  see  Clark  &  Hayward.  I  'm 
going  to  put  through  a  deal  with  them  that'll  put 
us  on  velvet,"  he  declared. 

"Clark  &  Hayward?  They're  the  real-estate 
people?  " 

"  You  're  some  little  guesser.  They  certainly  are. 
We  're  going  to  be  millionaires  when  I  get  through 
with  them !     Farewell !  " 

The  very  door  seemed  to  click  triumphantly  be- 
hind him,  and  she  heard  him  whistling  while  he 
waited  for  the  elevator.  When  he  appeared  on  the 
sidewalk  below,  she  was  leaning  from  the  window, 
and  she  would  have  waved  to  him  if  he  had  looked 
up.  Her  occupation  for  the  day  vanished  when  he 
swung  into  a  street-car  and  was  carried  out  of  sight. 

She  picked  up  the  pragmatism  book  again  and 


174  DIVERGING  ROADS 

read  a  few  paragraphs,  put  it  down  restlessly.  The 
untidy  bedroom  nagged  at  her  nerves,  but  Bert  was 
paying  for  hotel  service,  and  once  when  she  had 
made  the  bed  he  had  told  her  impatiently  that  there 
was  no  sense  in  letting  the  very  servants  know  she 
was  not  used  to  living  decently. 

She  would  go  for  a  walk.  There  might  be  some- 
thing new  to  see  in  the  shop  windows.  She  would 
take  the  book  with  her  and  read  it  in  the  dairy 
lunch-room  where  she  ate  when  alone.  It  seemed 
criminal  to  her  to  spend  money  unnecessarily  when 
they  owed  so  much,  and  she  could  not  help  trying  to 
save  it,  though  all  her  efforts  seemed  to  make  no 
difference. 

If  she  could  have  only  a  small  amount  of  money 
regularly,  she  could  manage  so  much  better.  Even 
the  salary  she  had  earned  as  a  telegraph-operator 
sometimes  seemed  like  riches  to  her,  because  she  had 
known  that  she  would  have  it  every  month  and  had 
managed  it  herself.  But  every  attempt  to  establish 
regularity  and  stability  in  her  present  life  ended  al- 
ways in  the  same  failure,  and  she  hurriedly  turned 
even  her  slightest  thoughts  from  the  memory  of  con- 
versations like  that  just  ended. 

In  the  dressing-room  she  snapped  on  all  the  lights 
and  under  their  merciless  glare  critically  inspected 
every  line  of  her  face.  The  carefully  brushed  arch 
of  the  eyebrows  was  perfect;  the  slightest  trace  of 
rouge  was  spread  skilfully  on  her  cheeks,  the  round 


DIVERGING  ROADS  175 

point  of  her  chin,  the  lobes  of  her  ears.  She  coaxed 
loose  a  tendril  of  dark  hair  and,  soaking  it  with  ban- 
derine,  plastered  it  against  her  cheek  in  a  curve  that 
was  the  final  touch  of  striking  artificiality.  She  did 
not  like  it,  but  Bert  did. 

She  took  time  in  adjusting  her  hat.  Everything 
depended  on  that,  she  knew.  She  tied  her  veil  with 
meticulous  care.  Then,  slowly  turning  before  the 
long  mirror  set  in  the  door,  she  critically  inspected 
every  detail  of  her  costume,  the  trim  little  boots,  the 
crisp,  even  edges  of  her  skirt,  the  line  of  the  jacket, 
the  immaculate  gloves.  A  tremendous  amount  of 
thought  and  effort  had  gone  into  the  making  of  that 
smart  effect,  and  she  felt  that  she  had  done  a  good 
job.  She  would  still  compare  favorably  with  any 
of  the  women  Bert  might  meet.  A  tiny  spark  of 
cheerfulness  was  kindled  by  the  thought.  She  tried 
to  nourish  it,  but  it  went  out  in  dreariness. 

What  kind  of  deal  was  Bert  putting  through  with 
Clark  &  Hayward?  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
mentioned  real  estate  since  the  unexplained  failure 
of  his  plan  to  go  to  Argentine.  That  was  another 
memory  from  which  she  hastily  turned  her  thoughts, 
a  memory  of  his  alternate  moodiness  and  wild 
gaiety,  of  his  angry  impatience  at  her  most  tentative 
show  of  interest  or  S3mipathy,  of  their  ending  an 
ecstatic,  miserable  honeymoon  by  sneaking  out  of  the 
hotel  leaving  an  unpaid  bill  behind  them.  She  still 
avoided  the  hotel,  though  he  must  long  since  have 


176  DIVERGING  ROADS 

paid  the  bill.  She  had  not  dared  ask  him,  but  he  had 
made  a  great  deal  of  money  since  then. 

There  had  been  the  flurry  of  excitement  about  the 
mining  stocks,  which  were  selling  like  wild-fire  and 
promised  millions  until  something  happened.  And 
then  the  scheme  for  floating  a  rubber  plantation  in 
Guatemala  —  his  long  eastern  trip  and  her  diamond 
ring  had  come  out  of  that  —  and  then  the  affair  of 
the  patent  monkey-wrench.  He  had  said  again  that 
there  were  millions  in  it,  and  had  derided  her  dislike 
of  the  inventor.  She  wondered  what  had  become 
of  that  enterprise,  and  secretly  thought  that  she  had 
been  right  and  that  the  man  had  tried  to  swindle 
Bert. 

Now  it  was  real  estate  again.  She  did  not  doubt 
that  her  clever  husband  would  succeed  in  it ;  she  was 
sure  that  he  would  be  one  of  America's  biggest  busi- 
ness men  some  day,  when  he  turned  his  genius  to  one 
line  and  followed  it  with  a  little  more  steadiness. 
But  she  would  have  liked  to  know  more  about  his 
business  affairs.  Since  they  could  not  have  a  home 
yet,  she  would  like  to  be  doing  something  interest- 
ing. 

She  stopped  such  thoughts  with  an  impatient 
little  mental  shake.  Perhaps  she  would  feel  better 
when  she  had  eaten  luncheon.  With  the  book 
tucked  under  her  arm  she  walked  briskly  down  the 
sunny,  wind-swept  streets,  threading  her  way  indif- 
ferently through  the  tangle  of  traffic  at  the  comers 


DIVERGING  ROADS  177 

with  the  sixth  sense  of  the  city  dweller,  seeing  with- 
out perceiving  them  the  clanging  street-cars,  the 
silent,  shining  limousines,  the  streams  of  cleverly 
dressed  women,  preoccupied  men,  fluffy  dogs  on 
chains,  and  the  panorama  of  shop  windows  filled 
with  laces,  jewels,  gowns,  furs,  hats.  She  walked 
surrounded  by  an  isolation  as  complete  as  if  she  were 
alone  in  a  forest,  and  nothing  struck  through  it  until 
she  paused  before  a  window-display  of  hardware. 

She  came  to  that  window  frequently,  drawn  by  an 
irresistible  attraction.  With  a  pleasant  sense  of  dis- 
sipation she  stood  before  it,  gazing  at  glittering  bath- 
room fixtures,  rank  on  rank  of  shining  pans,  rows  of 
kitchen  utensils,  electric  flat-irons.  To-day  there 
was  a  glistening  white  kitchen  cabinet,  with  in- 
genious flour-bin  and  built-in  sifter,  hooks  for  in- 
numerable spoons,  sugar  and  spice  jars,  an  egg- 
beater,  a  market-memorandum  device.  A  tempting 
yellow  bowl  stood  on  a  white  shelf. 

Some  day,  she  thought,  she  would  have  a  yellow 
kitchen.  She  had  in  mind  the  shade  of  yellow,  a 
clear  yellow,  like  sunshine.  There  would  be  cream 
walls  and  yellow  woodwork,  at  the  windows  sheer 
white  curtains,  which  would  wash  easily,  and  on  the 
window  sill  a  black  jar  filled  with  nasturtiums.  The 
breakfast-room  should  be  a  glassed-in  porch,  and  its 
curtains  should  be  thin  yellow  silk,  through  which 
the  sunshine  would  cast  a  golden  light  on  the  little 
breakfast  table  spread  with  a  white  embroidered 


178  DIVERGING  ROADS 

cloth  and  set  with  shining  silver  and  china.  The 
coffee  percolator  would  be  bubbling,  and  the  grape- 
fruit in  place,  and  when  she  came  from  the  kitchen 
with  the  plate  of  muffins  Bert  would  look  up  from 
his  paper  and  say,  "  Muffins  again  ?  Fine !  You  're 
some  little  muffin-maker ! '' 

She  dimpled  and  flushed  happily,  standing  before 
the  unresponsive  sheet  of  plate  glass.  Then,  with  a 
shrug  and  a  half  laugh  at  herself,  she  came  back  to 
reality  and  went  on.  But  the  display  held  her  as  a 
candy-shop  holds  a  child,  and  she  must  stop  again  to 
look  at  the  next  window,  filled  with  color-cards  and 
cans  of  paint.  Her  mind  was  still  busy  with  color 
combinations  for  a  living-room  when  she  entered  the 
dairy  lunch-room  and  carried  her  tray  to  a  table. 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  the  crowd  about  her, 
clerks  and  shopgirls  and  smartly  dressed  stenog- 
raphers hurriedly  drinking  coffee  and  eating  pie. 
Then  she  propped  her  book  against  the  sugar  bowl 
and  began  slowly  to  eat,  turning  a  page  from  time 
to  time.  This  was  an  astonishing  book.  It  was  not 
fiction,  but  it  was  even  more  interesting.  She  read 
quickly,  skipping  the  few  words  she  did  not  under- 
stand, grasping  their  meaning  by  a  kind  of  intuition, 
wondering  why  she  had  never  before  considered 
ideas  of  this  kind. 

She  was  so  deeply  absorbed  that  she  merely  felt, 
without  realizing,  the  presence  of  some  one  hesitat- 
ing at  her  elbow,  some  one  who  moved  past  her  to 


DIVERGING  ROADS  179 

draw  out  a  chair  opposite  her  and  set  dowfi  his  tray. 
She  moved  her  coffee-cup  to  make  room  for  it,  and 
apologetically  lifted  the  book  from  the  sugar  bowl, 
glancing  across  it  to  see  Paul. 

The  shock  was  so  great  that  for  an  instant  she  did 
not  move  or  think.  He  stood  motionless  and  stared 
at  her  with  eyes  wiped  blank  of  any  expression. 
Her  cup  rattled  as  the  book  dropped  against  it  and 
the  sound  roused  her.  With  the  sensation  of  a  des- 
perate twist,  like  that  of  a  falling  cat  righting  itself 
in  the  air,  she  faced  the  situation. 

"  Why  —  Paul !  '*  she  said,  and  felt  that  the  old 
name  struck  the  wrong  note.  "  tlow  you  startled 
me.  But  of  course  I  'm  very  glad  to  see  you  again. 
Do  sit  down." 

In  his  face  she  saw  clearly  his  chagrin,  his  rage 
at  himself  for  blundering  into  this  awkwardness,  his 
resolve  to  see  it  through.  He  put  himself  firmly 
into  the  chair  and  though  his  face  and  even  his  neck 
were  red,  there  was  the  remembered  determination 
in  the  set  of  his  lips  and  the  lift  of  his  chin. 

"  I  'm  certainly  surprised  to  see  you,"  he  said. 
"  From  all  I  've  been  hearing  about  you  I  had  a 
notion  you  never  ate  in  places  Hke  this  any  more. 
They  tell  me  you  're  getting  along  fine.  I  'm 
mighty  glad  to  hear  it."  With  deliberation  he 
dipped  two  level  spoonfuls  of  sugar  into  his  coffee 
and  attacked  the  triangle  of  pie. 

"  Oh,  I  come  in  sometimes  for  a  change,"  she  said 


i8o  DIVERGING  ROADS 

lightly.  "  Yes,  everything  's  fine  with  me.  You  're 
looking  well,  too." 

There  was  an  undeniable  air  of  prosperity  about 
him.  His  suit  was  tailor-made,  and  the  hat  on  the 
hook  above  his  head  was  a  new  gray  felt  of  the  latest 
shape.  His  face  had  changed  very  slightly,  grown 
perhaps  a  bit  fuller  than  she  remembered,  and  the 
line  of  the  jaw  was  squarer.  But  he  looked  at  her 
with  the  same  candid,  straight  gaze.  Of  course,  she 
could  not  expect  warmth  in  it. 

"  W^ell,  I  can't  complain,"  he  said.  "  Things  are 
going  pretty  well.  Slow,  of  course,  but  still  they  're 
coming." 

"  I  'm  awfully  glad  to  hear  it.  Your  mother  's 
well  ?  "  The  situation  was  fantastic  and  ghastly, 
but  she  would  not  escape  from  it  until  she  could  do 
so  gracefully.  She  formed  the  next  question  in  her 
mind  while  he  answered  that  one. 

"  Do  you  often  get  up  to  the  city?  " 

"  Oh,  now  and  then.  I  only  come  when  I  have 
to.  It 's  too  windy  and  too  noisy  to  suit  me.  I  just 
came  up  this  morning  to  see  a  real-estate  firm  here 
about  a  house  they  Ve  got  in  Ripley.  I  'm  going 
back  to-night." 

"  You  're  buying  a  house?  "  she  cried  in  the  tone 
of  a  child  who  sees  a  toy  taken  from  it.  Her  anger 
at  her  lack  of  self-control  was  increased  when  she 
saw  that  he  had  misinterpreted  her  feeling. 

"  Just  to  rent,"  he  said  hastily.     "  I  'm  not  think- 


DIVERGING  ROADS  i8i 

ing  of  —  moving.  Mother  and  I  are  satisfied  where 
we  are,  and  I  expect  it  '11  be  some  time  before  I  get 
that  place  paid  for.  This  other  house — "  It 
seemed  to  her  unbearable  that  he  should  have  two 
houses.  But  he  went  on  doggedly,  determined,  she 
saw,  to  give  no  impression  of  a  prosperity  that  was 
not  his.  "  I  expect  you  would  n't  think  much  of  it. 
But  there  's  a  big  real-estate  firm  up  here  that 's 
going  to  boom  Ripley,  and  I  wanted  to  get  in  on  as 
much  of  it  as  I  could.  They  're  buying  up  half  the 
land  in  the  county,  and  I  had  an  option  on  a  little 
piece  they  wanted,  so  I  traded  it  in  for  this  house. 
I  figure  I  can  fix  it  up  some  and  make  a  good  thing 
renting  it  pretty  soon." 

She  saw  that  her  momentary  envy  had  been 
absurd.  He  might  have  two  houses,  but  he  was 
only  one  of  the  unnumbered  customers  of  a  big  real- 
estate  firm.  At  that  moment  her  husband  was  deal- 
ing as  an  equal  with  the  heads  of  such  a  firm. 
There  was,  of  course,  no  comparison  between  the 
two  men,  and  she  made  none.  The  stirring  of  re- 
membered affection  that  she  felt  for  Paul  registered 
in  her  mind  only  a  pensive  realization  of  the  decay 
of  everything  under  the  erosion  of  time. 

She  felt  that  she  was  managing  the  interview  very 
well,  and  when  she  saw  Paul  resugaring  his  coffee 
from  time  to  time,  with  the  same  deliberate  measur- 
ing of  two  level  spoonfuls,  she  felt  a  complex  grati- 
fication.    She  told  herself  that  she  did  not  want  Paul 


i82  DIVERGING  ROADS 

to  be  still  in  love  with  lier  and  unhappy,  but  there 
was  a  pleasure  in  seeing  this  evidence  that  his  agita- 
tion was  greater  than  hers.  Being  ashamed  of  the 
emotion  did  not  kill  it. 

He  told  her,  with  an  attempt  to  control  his  pride, 
that  he  was  no  longer  with  the  railroad  company. 
The  man  who  "  just  about  owned  Ripley  "  had  given 
him  a  better  job.  He  was  in  charge  of  the  ice-plant 
and  lumber-yard  now,  and  he  was  getting  a  hundred 
and  fifty  a  month.  He  mentioned  the  figures  dif- 
fidently, as  one  who  does  not  desire  to  be  boastful. 

"  That 's  fine !  "  she  said,  and  thought  that  they 
paid  nearly  half  that  sum  for  rent,  and  that  the  very 
clothes  she  was  wearing  had  cost  more  than  his 
month's  salary.  She  would  have  liked  him  to  know 
these  things,  so  that  he  might  see  how  wonderful 
Bert  was,  though  they  did  not  have  a  house,  and  the 
cruelty  of  even  thinking  this  made  her  hate  herself. 
"  Why,  you  *re  doing  splendidly,''  she  said.  ''  I  'm 
so  glad!" 

Paul,  though  conscientiously  modest,  agreed  with 
her,  and  was  deeply  pleased  by  her  applause.  After 
an  evident  struggle  between  two  opposing  impulses, 
he  began  to  ask  questions  about  her.  She  found 
there  was  very  little  to  tell  him.  Yes,  she  was  hav- 
ing a  very  good  time.  Yes,  she  was  very  well.  His 
admiration  of  her  rosy  color  threw  her  into  a  strang- 
ling whirlpool  of  emotions,  from  which  she  rescued 
herself  by  the  sardonic  thought  that  her  technic  with 


DIVERGING  ROADS  183 

rouge  had  improved  since  their  last  meeting.  She 
told  him  vaguel}^  that  business  was  fine,  and  that  they 
had  a  lovely  apartment  on  Bush  Street. 

There  was  nothing  else  to  tell  about  herself,  and 
both  of  them  avoided  directly  mentioning  her  hus- 
band. She  had  never  more  keenly  realized  the 
emptiness  of  her  life,  except  for  Bert,  than  when  she 
saw  Paul's  mind  circling  about  it  in  an  effort  to  find 
something  there. 

He  turned  at  last,  baffled,  to  the  book  beside  her 
plate. 

"  Still  keeping  on  reading,  I  see.  I  re  — "  he 
stopped  short.  They  both  remembered  the  small 
book-case  with  the  glass  doors  that  had  stood  in  his 
mother's  parlor  in  Masonville,  and  how  they  had 
lingered  before  it  on  the  pretext  that  she  was  bor- 
rowing a  book.  **  Something  good?"  he  asked 
hastily.  When  she  showed  him  the  title,  he  repeated 
it  doubtfully :  "  Pragmatism  ?  Well,  it 's  all  right, 
I  suppose.  I  don't  go  much  for  these  Oriental  no- 
tions about  religion,  myself." 

"  It  is  n't  a  religion,  exactly,"  she  said  uncer- 
tainly. "  It 's  a  new  way  of  looking  at  things. 
It 's  about  truth  —  sort  of.  I  mean,  it  says  there 
is  n't  any,  really  —  not  absolutely,  you  know,"  she 
floundered  on  before  the  puzzled  question  in  his 
eyes.  "  It  says  there  is  n't  absolute  truth  —  truth, 
you  know,  like  a  separate  thing.  Truth  's  only  a 
sort  of  quality,  like  —  well,  like  beauty,  and  it  be- 


i84  DIVERGING  ROADS 

longs  to  a  thing  if  the  thing  works  out  right.  I  've 
got  it  clear  in  my  head,  but  I  don't  express  it  very 
well,  I  know." 

"  I  don't  see  any  sense  to  it,  myself,'*  he  com- 
mented. "  Truth  is  just  simply  truth,  that 's  all, 
and  it 's  up  to  us  to  tell  it  all  the  time." 

She  knew  that  an  attempt  to  explain  further  would 
fail,  and  she  felt  that  her  mind  had  a  wider  range 
than  his;  but  she  had  an  impression  of  his  stand- 
ing sure-footed  and  firm  on  the  rock  of  his  simple 
convictions,  and  she  saw  that  his  whole  life  was 
as  secure  and  stable  as  hers  was  insecure  and  pre- 
carious. She  felt  about  that  as  she  did  about  his 
house,  envying  him  something  which  she  knew  was 
not  as  valuable  as  her  own  possessions. 

A  strange  pang  —  a  pain  she  could  not  under- 
stand —  struck  her  when  he  stopped  at  the  cashier's 
grating  and  paid  her  check  with  his  own  in  the 
most  matter-of-fact  way. 

They  parted  at  the  door  of  the  lunch-room;  for 
seeing  his  hesitation  she  said  brightly : 

"  Well,  good-by.  I  'm  going  the  other  w^ay." 
She  held  out  her  hand,  and  when  he  took  it  she 
added  quickly,  **  I  'm  so  glad  to  have  seen  you  look- 
ing so  well  and  happy." 

"  I  'm  not  so  blamed  happy,"  he  retorted  gruffly, 
as  if  her  words  jarred  the  exclamation  from  him. 
He  covered  it  instantly  with  a  heavy,  "  So  'm  I  — 
I  'm  glad  you  are.     Good-by." 


DIVERGING  ROADS  185 

That  exclamation  remained  in  her  mind,  repeat- 
ing itself  at  intervals  like  an  echo.  She  had  been 
more  deeply  stirred  than  she  had  realized.  Frag- 
ments of  old  emotions,  unrealized  hopes,  unsatisfied 
longings,  rose  in  her,  to  be  replaced  by  others,  to 
sink,  and  come  back  again.  "  I  'm  not  so  blamed 
happy."  It  might  have  meant  anything  or  nothing. 
She  wondered  what  her  life  would  be  if  she  were 
living  in  a  little  house  in  Ripley  with  him,  and  re- 
jected the  picture,  and  considered  it  again. 

Lookng  back,  she  saw  all  the  turnings  that  had 
taken  her  from  the  road  to  a  life  like  that  —  the 
road  that  she  had  once  unquestioningly  supposed 
that  she  would  take.  If  she  had  stayed  at  home 
in  Masonville,  if  she  had  given  up  the  struggle  in 
Sacramento;  if  she  had  been  able  to  Hve  in  San 
Francisco  with  nothing  to  fill  her  days  but  work 
and  loneliness  —  she  saw  as  a  series  of  merest 
chances  the  steps  which  had  brought  her  at  last 
to  Bert. 

One  could  not  have  everything.  She  had  him. 
He  was  not  a  man  who  would  work  slowly,  day 
by  day,  toward  a  petty  job  and  a  small  house  bought 
on  the  instalment  plan.  He  was  brilliant,  clever, 
daring.  He  would  one  day  do  great  things,  and 
she  must  help  him  by  giving  him  all  her  love  and 
faith  and  trust.  Suddenly  it  appeared  monstrous 
that  she  should  be  struggling  against  him,  troubling 
him  with  her  commonplace  desires  for  a  common- 


i86  DIVERGING  ROADS 

place  thing  like  a  home,  at  the  very  moment  when 
he  needed  all  his  wit  and  skill  to  handle  a  big  deal. 
She  was  ashamed  of  the  thoughts  with  which  she 
had  been  playing;  they  seemed  to  her  an  infidelity 
of  the  spirit. 


CHAPTER  XII 

BERT  was  not  in  the  apartment  when  she  reached 
it;  she  knew  her  disappointment  was  irrational, 
for  she  had  told  herself  he  would  not  be  there. 
However,  he  might  telephone.  She  curled  up  in  the 
big  chair  by  the  window,  the  book  in  her  lap,  and 
read  with  a  continual  consciousness  of  waiting. 
She  felt  that  his  coming  or  the  sound  of  his  voice 
would  rescue  her  from  something  within  herself. 

At  six  o'clock  she  told  herself  that  he  would 
telephone  within  an  hour.  Experience  had  taught 
her  that  this  way  of  measuring  time  helped  it  to 
pass  more  quickly.  With  determined  effort  she 
concentrated  her  attention  upon  her  book,  shutting 
out  voices  that  clamored  heart-shaking  things  to 
her.  At  seven  o'clock  she  was  walking  up  and  down 
the  living-room,  despising  herself,  telling  herself 
that  nothing  had  happened,  that  he  did  these  things 
only  to  show  her  his  hold  on  her,  that  at  any  moment 
now  his  message  would  come. 

For  another  hour  she  thought  of  many  things  she 
might  have  done  differently.  She  might  have 
walked  past  the  office  of  Clark  &  Hayward,  meeting 
him  as  if  by  accident  when  he  came  out.     But  that 

187 


i88  DIVERGING  ROADS 

might  have  annoyed  him.  She  might  have  gone 
to  some  of  the  cafes  for  tea  on  the  chance  of  meet- 
ing him  there.  But  there  were  so  many  cafes !  He 
must  be  dining  in  one  of  them  now,  and  she  could 
not  know  which  one.  She  could  not  know  who 
might  be  dining  with  him. 

"  Helen  Davies  Kennedy,  stop  it !  Stop  it !  '*  she 
said  aloud.  She  was  a  little  quieter  then,  walking 
to  the  window,  and  standing  there,  gazing  down  at 
the  street.  Her  heart  beat  suffocatingly  at  the  sight 
of  each  machine  that  passed;  she  thought,  until  it 
went  by,  that  he  might  be  in  it. 

It  was  the  old  agony  again,  and  weariness  and 
contempt  for  herself'  were  mingled  with  her  pain. 
So  many  times  she  had  waited,  as  she  was  waiting 
now,  and  always  he  had  come  back  to  her,  laughing 
at  her  hysteria.  Why  could  she  not  learn  to  bear 
it  more  easily?  She  might  have  to  wait  until  mid- 
night, until  later  than  midnight.     She  set  her  teeth. 

The  sudden  peal  of  the  telephone  bell  in  the  dark 
room  startled  a  smothered  cry  from  her.  She  ran, 
stumbling  against  the  table,  and  the  receiver  shook 
at  her  ear;  but  her  voice  was  steady  and  pleasant. 

"Yes?" 

"Helen?  Bert.  I  *m  going  south  to-night  on 
the  Lark.  Pack  my  suitcases  and  ship  'em  express 
to  Bakersfield,  will  you?  " 

"What?  Yes,  yes.  Right  away.  Are  you  — 
will  you  —  be  gone  long?  " 


DIVERGING  ROADS  189 

His  voice  was  going  on,  jubilant: 

"Trust  your  Uncle  Dudley  to  put  it  over! 
D  'you  know  what  I  got  from  the  tightest  firm  in 
town?  Unlimited  letter  of  credit!  Get  that  'un- 
limited'?" 

"Oh  Bert!" 

"  It 's  the  biggest  land  proposition  ever  put  out 
in  the  West !  Ripley  Farmland  Acres !  I  'm  going 
to  put  them  on  the  map  in  letters  a  mile  high !  Be- 
lieve me,  I  'm  going  to  wake  things  up !  There  's 
half  a  million  in  it  for  me  if  it 's  handled  right, 
and,  believe  me,  I  'm  some  little  handler !  " 

"  I  know  you  are !     O  Bert,  how  splendid !  " 

"  All  right.  Get  the  suitcases  off  early  —  here  's 
my  train.     By-by !  " 

"  Wait  a  minute  —  when  're  you  coming  back  ? 
Can't  I  come,  too  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.  I  '11  let  you  know.  Oh,  d  'you  want 
some  money?  " 

"  Well  —  I  have  n't  got  much  —  but  that 
isn't—" 

"  Send  you  a  check.  From  now  on  I  'm  made 
of  money  —  so  long  — " 

"  Bert  dear  — "  she  cried,  against  the  click  of  a 
closed  receiver.  Then  with  a  long,  relaxing  sigh 
she  slowly  put  down  the  telephone.  After  a  mo- 
ment she  went  into  the  bedroom,  switched  on  the 
lights,  and  began  to  pack  shirts  and  collars  into 
his  bags.     She  was  smiling,  because  happiness  and 


I90  DIVERGING  ROADS 

hope  had  come  back  to  her ;  but  her  hands  shook,  for 
she  was  exhausted. 

It  was  thirty-two  days  before  she  heard  from 
him  again.  A  post-dated  check  for  a  hundred  dol- 
lars, crushed  into  an  envelope  and  mailed  on  the 
train,  had  come  back  to  her,  and  that  was  all.  But 
she  assured  herself  that  he  was  too  busy  to  write. 
The  month  went  by  slowly,  but  it  was  not  unbear- 
ably dreary,  for  she  was  able  to  keep  uneasy  doubts 
in  check,  and  to  live  over  in  her  memory  many 
happy  hours  with  him.  She  planned,  too,  the  de- 
tails of  the  house  they  would  have  if  this  time  he 
really  did  make  a  great  deal  of  money.  He  would 
give  her  a  house,  she  knew,  whenever  he  could  do 
it  easily  and  carelessly. 

When  the  telephone  awakened  her  one  night  at 
midnight  her  first  thought  was  that  he  had  come 
back.  She  was  struggling  into  a  negligee  and 
snatching  a  fresh  lace  cap  from  a  drawer  when  it 
rang  again  and  undeceived  her. 

Long  distance  from  Coalinga  had  a  call  for  her 
and  wished  her  to  reverse  charges.  She  repeated 
the  name  uncertainly,  and  the  voice  repeated :  "  Call 
from  Mr.  Kennedy  in  Coalinga  — " 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes!  Yes.  I  '11  pay  for  it.  Yes,  it 's 
O.  K."  She  waited  nervously  in  the  darkness  until 
his  voice  came  faintly  to  her. 

"  Hello,  Helen !  Bert.  Listen.  Have  you  got 
any  money?  " 


DIVERGING  ROADS  191 

"  About  thirty  dollars." 

"  Well,  listen,  Helen.  Wire  me  twenty,  will  you  ? 
I  Ve  got  to  have  it  right  away." 

"Of  course.  Very  first  thing  in  the  morning. 
Are  you  all  right  ?  " 

"Am  I  all  right?  Good  God,  Helen!  do  you 
think  anybody  *s  all  right  when  he  has  n't  got  any 
money?  We  've  just  got  into  this  rotten  burg;  been 
driving  all  day  long  and  half  the  night  across  a 
desert  hotter  than  the  hinges  of  the  main  gate,  and 
not  a  drink  for  a  hundred  and  forty  — "  His  voice 
blurred  into  a  buzzing  on  the  wire,  and  she  caught 
disconnected  words :  "  Skinflints  —  over  on  me  — 
they  Ve  got  another  guess  —  piker  stunt  — " 

She  reiterated  loudly  that  she  would  send  the 
money,  and  heard  central  relaying  the  words. 
Nothing  more  came  over  the  wire,  though  she  rat- 
tled the  receiver.  At  last  she  went  back  to  bed,  to 
lie  awake  till  dawn  came. 

She  was  waiting  at  the  telegraph-office  when  the 
money-order  department  opened.  After  she  had 
sent  the  twenty  dollars  she  tried  to  drink  a  cup  of 
coffee,  and  walked  quickly  back  to  the  apartment. 
She  felt  that  she  should  be  able  to  think  of  some- 
thing to  do,  some  action  she  could  take  which  would 
help  Bert,  and  many  wild  schemes  rushed  through 
her  feverish  brain.  But  she  knew  that  she  could 
do  nothing  but  wait. 

The  telephone  bell  was  ringing  when  she  reached 


192  DIVERGING  ROADS 

her  door.  It  seemed  an  eternity  before  she  could 
reach  it.  Again  she  assured  central  that  she  would 
pay  the  charges,  and  heard  his  voice.  He  wanted 
to  know  why  she  had  not  sent  the  money,  then  when 
she  had  sent  it,  then  why  it  had  not  arrived.  He 
talked  a  great  deal,  impatiently,  and  she  saw  that  his 
high-strung  temperament  had  been  excited  to  a 
frenzy  by  disasters  which  in  her  ignorance  of  busi- 
ness she  could  not  know.  Her  heart  ached  with 
a  passion  of  sympathy  and  love;  she  was  torn  by 
her  inability  to  help  him. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  called  again,  and  demanded 
the  same  explanations.  Then  suddenly  he  inter- 
rupted her,  and  told  her  to  come  to  Coalinga.  It 
was  a  rotten  hole,  he  repeated,  and  he  wanted  her. 

That  he  should  want  her  was  almost  too  much 
happiness,  but  she  tried  to  be  cool  and  reasonable 
about  it.  She  pointed  out  that  she  had  just  paid 
a  month's  rent,  that  she  had  only  ten  dollars,  that 
it  might  be  wiser,  she  might  be  less  a  burden  to 
him,  if  she  stayed  in  San  Francisco.  She  would 
make  the  ten  dollars  last  a  month,  and  that  would 
give  him  time  —  He  interrupted  her  savagely.  He 
wanted  her.  Was  she  coming  or  was  she  throwing 
him  down  ?  Thought  he  could  n't  support  her,  did 
she  ?  He  always  had  done  it,  had  n't  he  ?  Where 
she  'd  get  this  sudden  notion  he  was  no  good  ?  He 
could  tell  her  Gilbert  Kennedy  was  n't  done  for  yet, 
not  by  a  damned  sight.     Was  she  coming  or  — 


DIVERGING  ROADS  193 

"  Oh,  yes !  yes !  yes !  I  '11  come  right  away !  '* 
she  cried. 

While  she  was  packing,  she  wished  that  she  had 
something  to  pawn.  She  would  have  braved  a 
pawnbroker's  shop  herself.  But  the  diamond  ring 
had  gone  when  the  Guatemala  rubber  plantation 
failed ;  her  other  jewels  were  paste  or  semi-precious 
stones;  her  furs  were  too  old  to  bring  anything. 
She  could  take  Bert  nothing  but  her  courage  and 
her  faith. 

She  found  that  her  ticket  cost  nine  dollars  and 
ninety  cents.  When  she  reached  Coalinga,  after  a 
long  restless  night  on  the  train  and  a  two-hours' 
careful  toilet  in  the  swaying  dressing-room,  she 
gave  the  porter  the  remaining  dime.  It  was  a  ges- 
ture of  confidence  in  Bert  and  in  the  future.  She 
was  going  to  him  with  a  high  spirit,  matching  his 
reckless  daring  with  her  own. 

He  was  not  on  the  platform.  When  the  train  had 
gone  she  still  waited  a  few  minutes,  looking  at  a 
row  of  one-story  ramshackle  buildings  which  par- 
alleled the  single  track.  Obviously  they  were  all 
saloons.  A  few  loungers  stared  at  her  from  the 
sagging  board  sidewalk.  She  turned  her  head,  to 
see  on  either  side  the  far  level  stretches  of  a  desert 
broken  only  by  dirty  splashes  of  sage-brush.  The 
whole  scene  seemed  curiously  small  under  a  high 
gray  sky  quivering  with  blinding  heat. 

She  picked  up  her  bags  and  walked  across  the 


194  DIVERGING  ROADS 

street  in  a  white  glare  of  sunlight.  A  heavy,  sick- 
ening smell  rose  in  hot  waves  from  the  oiled  road. 
She  felt  ill.  But  she  knew  that  it  would  be  a  simple 
matter  to  find  Bert  in  a  town  so  small.  He  would 
be  at  the  best  hotel. 

She  found  it  easily,  a  two-story  building  of  cream 
plaster  which  rose  conspicuously  on  the  one  main 
street.  There  was  coolness  and  shade  in  the  wide 
clean  lobby,  and  the  clerk  told  her  at  once  that  Bert 
was  there.  He  told  her  where  to  find  the  room  on 
the  second  floor. 

Her  heart  fluttered  when  she  tapped  on  the  pan- 
els and  heard  Bert  call,  "  Come  in !  "  She  dropped 
her  bags  and  rushed  into  a  dimness  thick  with  the 
smoke  of  cigars.  The  room  seemed  full  of  men, 
but  when  the  first  flurry  of  greetings  and  introduc- 
tions were  over  and  she  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed  beside  Bert,  she  saw  that  there  were  only 
five. 

They  were  all  young  and  appeared  at  the  moment 
very  gloomy.  Depression  was  in  the  air  as  thickly 
as  the  cigar  smoke.  She  gathered  from  their  bit- 
ter talk  that  they  were  land  salesmen,  that  a  cam- 
paign in  Bakersfield  had  ended  in  some  sudden 
disaster, — "  blown  up,"  they  said, —  and  that  they 
found  a  miserable  pleasure  in  repeating  that  Coal- 
inga  was  a  "  rotten  territory." 

Bert,  lounging  against  the  heaped-up  pillows  on 
the  bed,  with  a  cigar  in  his  hand  and  whisky  and  ice- 


DIVERGING  ROADS  195 

water  at  his  elbow,  let  them  talk  until  it  seemed 
that  despondency  could  not  be  more  blacker,  then 
suddenly  sitting  up,  he  poured  upon  them  a  flood 
of  tingling  words.  His  eyes  glowed,  his  face  was 
vividly  keen  and  alive,  and  his  magnetic  charm 
played  upon  them  like  a  tangible  force.  Helen,  sit- 
ting silent,  listening  to  phrases  which  meant  noth- 
ing to  her,  thrilled  with  pride  while  she  watched 
him  handle  these  men,  awakening  sparks  in  the  dead 
ashes  of  their  enthusiasm,  firing  them,  giving  them 
something  of  his  own  irresistible  confidence  in  him- 
self. 

"  I  tell  you  fellows  this  thing  's  going  to  go.  It  *s 
going  to  go  big.  There  's  thousands  of  dollars  in 
it,  and  every  man  that  sticks  is  going  to  be  rolling 
in  velvet.  Get  out  if  you  want  to ;  if  you  're  pikers, 
beat  it.  I  don't  need  you.  I  'm  going  to 
bring  into  this  territory  the  livest  bunch  of 
salesmen  that  ever  came  home  with  the  bacon.  But 
I  don't  want  any  pikers  in  my  game.  If  you  're 
going  to  lay  down  on  me,  do  it  now,  and  get  out." 

They  assured  him  that  they  were  with  him.  The 
most  reluctant  wanted  to  know  something  about  de- 
tails, there  was  some  talk  of  percentage  and  agree- 
ments. Bert  slashed  at  him  with  cutting  words, 
and  the  others  bore  him  down  with  their  aroused 
enthusiasm.  Then  Bert  offered  to  buy  drinks,  and 
they  all  went  out  together  in  a  jovial  crowd. 

Helen  was  left  alone,  to  realize  afresh  her  hus- 


196  DIVERGING  ROADS 

band's  power,  and  to  reflect  on  her  own  smallness 
and  stupidity.  She  stifled  a  nagging  Httle  worry 
about  Bert 's  drinking.  She  always  wished  he 
would  not  do  it,  but  she  knew  it  was  a  masculine 
habit  which  she  did  not  understand  because  she  was 
a  woman.  After  all,  men  accomplished  the  big 
things,  and  they  must  be  allowed  to  do  them  in  their 
own  way. 

She  opened  the  windows,  but  letting  out  the  smoke 
let  in  a  stifling  heat  and  the  sickening  smell  of  crude 
oil.  She  closed  them  again  and  reduced  the  con- 
fusion of  the  room  to  orderliness,  smoothing  the 
bed,  gathering  up  armfuls  of  scattered  papers  and 
unpacking  her  bags.  When  Bert  came  back  a  few 
hours  later  she  was  reading  with  interest  a  pile  of 
literature  about  Ripley  Farmland  Acres. 

He  came  in  exuberantly,  and  as  she  ran  toward 
him  he  tossed  into  the  air  a  handful  of  clinking 
gold  coins.  They  fell  around  her  and  scattered 
rolling  on  the  floor.  "  Trust  your  Uncle  Dudley  to 
put  one  over !  "  he  cried.  "  Pick  'em  up !  They  're 
yours !  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear ! "  she  gasped,  between 
laughter  and  the  tears  that  now  she  could  no  longer 
control.  Her  arms  were  around  his  neck,  and  she 
did  not  mind  his  laughing  at  her,  though  she  con- 
trolled herself  quickly  before  his  amusement  could 
change  to  annoyance.  "  I  knew  you  'd  do  it !  "  she 
said. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  197 

It  was  a  long  time  before  she  remembered  the 
money.  Then,  gathering  it  up,  she  was  astonished 
to  find  nearly  a  hundred  dollars.  He  laughed  at 
her  again  when  she  asked  him  how  he  had  got  it. 
It  was  all  right.  He'd  got  it,  hadn't  he?  But 
he  told  her  not  to  pay  for  her  meals  in  the  dining- 
room,  to  sign  the  checks  instead,  and  from  this  she 
deduced  that  his  business  difficulties  were  not  yet 
entirely  overcome.  She  put  the  money  in  her  purse, 
resolving  to  save  it. 

She  discovered  that  he  now  owned  a  large  green 
automobile.  Apparently  he  had  bought  it  in  Bak- 
ersfield,  for  it  had  been  some  months  since  he  had 
sold  the  gray  one.  In  the  afternoon  they  drove  out 
to  the  oil  leases,  and  she  sat  in  the  machine  while  the 
salesmen  scattered  to  look  for  land  buyers. 

The  novelty  of  the  scene  was  sufficient  occupa- 
tion for  her.  Low  hills  of  yellow  sand,  shimmer- 
ing in  glassy  heat-waves,  were  covered  with  innum- 
erable derricks,  which  in  the  distance  looked  like 
a  weird  forest  without  leaf  or  shade  and  near  at 
hand  suggested  to  her  grotesque  creatures  animated 
by  unnatural  life,  their  long  necks  moving  up  and 
down  with  a  chugging  sound.  There  were  huddles 
of  little  houses,  patchworks  of  boards  and  canvas, 
and  now  and  then  she  saw  faded  women  in  calico 
dresses,  or  a  child  sitting  half  naked  and  gasping  in 
the  hot  shadows.  She  felt  that  she  was  in  a  foreign 
land,  and  the  far  level  desert  stretching  into  a  haze 


198  DIVERGING  ROADS 

of  blue  on  the  eastern  sky-line  seemed  like  a  sea 
between  her  and  all  that  she  had  known. 

The  salesmen  were  morose  when  they  returned 
to  the  machine,  and  Bert's  enthusiasm  was  forced. 
"  There  's  millions  of  dollars  a  year  pouring  out 
of  these  wells,"  he  declared.  "  We  're  going  to  get 
ours,  boys,  believe  me !  "  But  they  did  not  respond, 
and  Helen  felt  an  increasing  tension  while  they  drove 
back  to  town  through  a  blue  twilight.  She  thought 
with  relief  of  the  gold  pieces  in  her  purse. 

After  supper  Bert  sent  her  to  their  room,  and 
she  lay  in  her  nightgown  on  sheets  that  were  hot 
to  the  touch,  and  panted  while  she  read  of  Ripley 
Farmland  Acres.  The  literature  was  reassuring; 
it  seemed  to  her  that  any  one  would  buy  land  so  good 
on  such  astonishingly  low  terms.  But  her  un- 
easiness increased  like  an  intolerable  tightening  of 
the  nerves,  and  her  enforced  inaction  in  this  crisis 
that  she  did  not  understand  tortured  her.  It  oc- 
curred to  her  that  she  was  still  able  to  telegraph,  and 
juntil  she  dismissed  the  thought  as  unfair  to  Bert 
she  was  tantalized  by  a  wild  idea  of  once  more 
having  some  control  of  her  fate. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  he  came  in,  and 
she  saw  that  any  questions  would  drive  him  into  a 
fury  of  irritated  nerves.  In  the  morning,  she 
thought,  he  would  be  in  a  more  approachable 
mood.  But  when  she  awakened  in  the  dawn  he  was 
gone. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  199 

She  did  not  see  him  until  nearly  noon.  After 
sitting  for  some  time  in  the  lobby  and  exploring  as 
much  of  the  sleepy  town  as  she  could  without  losing 
sight  of  the  hotel  entrance  to  which  he  might  come, 
she  had  returned  to  the  row  of  chairs  beside  it 
and  was  sitting  there  when  he  appeared  in  the  green 
automobile. 

She  ran  to  the  curb.  He  was  flushed,  his  eyes 
were  very  bright,  and  while  he  introduced  her  to 
a  man  and  woman  in  the  tonneau,  she  heard  in 
his  voice  the  note  she  had  learned  to  meet  with 
instant  alertness.  He  told  her  smoothly  that  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Andrews  were  interested  in  Ripley  Farm- 
land Acres;  he  was  driving  them  over  to  look  at 
the  proposition.  She  leaned  across  a  pile  of  lug- 
gage to  shake  hands  with  them  and  talked  engag- 
ingly to  the  woman,  but  she  did  not  miss  Bert's 
slightest  movement  or  change  of  expression. 

When  he  asked  her  to  get  his  driving  gloves  she 
knew  that  he  would  follow  her,  and  on  the  stairs  she 
gripped  the  banister  with  a  hand  whose  quiver- 
ing she  could  not  stop.  She  was  not  afraid  of 
Bert  in  this  mood,  but  she  knew  that  it  threatened  an 
explosion  of  nervous  temper  as  sufficient  atmos- 
pheric tension  threatens  lightening.  He  was  at  the 
door  of  their  room  before  she  had  closed  it. 

'*  Where  's  that  money?  " 

"  Right  here."  She  hesitated,  opening  her  purse. 
"  Bert  —  it 's  all  we  have,  is  n't  it?  " 


20O  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  What  difference  does  that  make  ?  It  is  n't  all 
I  *m  going  to  have." 

"  Listen  just  a  minute.  Did  that  woman  tell 
you  she  was  going  to  buy  land  ? " 

"  Good  Lord,  do  I  have  to  stand  here  and  talk  ? 
They  're  waiting.     Give  me  that  money." 

"  But  Bert.  She  *s  taking  another  hat  with  her. 
She  *s  got  it  in  a  bag,  and  she  's  got  two  suitcases, 
and  she  —  the  way  sKe  looks  —  I  believe  she  's 
just  going  somewhere  and  getting  you  to  take  her 
in  the  machine.  And  —  please  let  me  finish  —  if 
it 's  all  the  money  we  have  don't  you  think  — " 

She  knew  that  his  outburst  of  anger  was  her  own 
fault.  He  was  nervous  and  overwrought;  she 
should  have  soothed  him,  agreed  with  him  in  any- 
thing, in  everything.  But  there  had  been  no  time. 
Shaken  as  she  was  by  his  words,  she  clung  to  her 
opinion,  even  tried  to  express  it  again.  She  felt 
that  their  last  hold  on  security  was  the  money  in 
her  purse,  and  she  saw  him  losing  it  in  a  hopeless 
effort.  Against  his  experience  and  authority  she 
could  offer  only  an  impression,  and  the  absurdity 
of  talking  about  a  hatsack  in  a  woman's  hand.  The 
futility  of  such  weapons  increased  her  desperation. 
His  scorn  ended  in  rage.  "  Are  you  going  to  give 
me  that  money  ?  " 

Tears  she  would  not  shed  blinded  her.  Her  fin- 
gers fumbled  with  the  fastening  of  the  purse.  The 
coins  slid  out  and  scattered  on  the  floor.     He  picked 


DIVERGING  ROADS  20l 

them  up,  and  the  slamming  of  the  door  told  her  he 
was  gone. 

She  no  longer  tried  to  hold  her  self-control. 
When  it  came  back  to  her  it  came  slowly,  as  skies 
clear  after  a  storm.  Her  body  was  exhausted  with 
sobs  and  her  face  was  swollen  and  sodden,  but  she 
felt  a  great  relief.  The  glare  of  sunlight  on  the 
drawn  shades  and  the  stifling  heat  told  her  that  it 
was  late  in  the  afternoon.  She  undressed  wearily, 
bathed  her  face  with  cool  water  and,  lying  down 
again,  was  engulfed  in  the  pleasant  darkness  of 
sleep. 

The  next  day  and  the  next  passed  with  a  slow- 
ness that  was  like  a  deliberate  refinement  of  cruelty. 
She  felt  that  time  itself  was  malicious,  prolong- 
ing her  suspense.  The  young  salesmen  shared  it 
with  her.  They  had  telegraphed  friends  and  fami- 
lies and  were  awaiting  money  with  which  to  get  out 
of  town.  One  by  one  they  were  released  and  de- 
parted joyfully.     Five  days  passed.     Six.     Seven. 

She  would  have  telegraphed  to  Clark  &  Hayward, 
but  she  had  no  money  for  the  telegram.  She  would 
have  found  work  if  there  had  been  any  that  she 
could  do.  The  manager  of  the  small  telegraph- 
office  was  the  only  operator.  In  the  little  town 
there  were  a  few  stores,  already  supplied  with  clerks, 
a  couple  of  boarding-houses  on  Whiskey  Row,  and 
scores  of  pretty  little  houses  in  which  obviously  no 
servants  were  employed.     The  local  paper  carried 


202  DIVERGING  ROADS 

half  a  dozen  "  help  wanted "  advertisements  for 
stenographers  and  cooks  on  the  oil-leases.  She  did 
not  know  stenography,  and  she  did  not  have  the 
ability  to  cook  for  twenty  or  forty  hungry  men. 

A  bill  in  her  box  at  the  end  of  the  week  told  her 
that  her  room  was  costing  three  dollars  a  day,  and 
she  dared  not  precipitate  inquiry  by  asking  for  a 
cheaper  one.  She  was  appalled  by  the  prices  of 
the  bill-of-fare,  and  ate  sparingly,  signing  the 
checks,  however,  with  a  careless  scrawl  and  a  confi- 
dent smile  at  the  waitress. 

She  was  coming  from  the  dining-room  on  the 
evening  of  the  seventh  day  when  the  manager  of 
the  hotel,  somewhat  embarrassed,  asked  her  not  to 
sign  any  more  checks  for  meals.  It  was  a  new  rule 
of  the  house,  he  said.  She  smiled  at  him,  too,  and 
agreed  easily.  "Why,  certainly!"  Altering  her 
intention  of  going  up-stairs,  she  walked  into  the 
lobby  and  sat  relaxed  in  a  chair,  glancing  with  an 
appearance  of  interest  at  a  newspaper. 

So  it  happened  that  she  saw  the  item  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  column,  which  at  last  gave  her  news  of 
Bert. 

BERT  KENNEDY  SOUGHT 
ON  BAD  CHECK  CHARGE 
Charging  Gilbert  H.  Kennedy,  well-known  along  the 
city's  joy  zones,  with  cashing  a  bogus  check  for  a  hundred 
dollars  on  the  Metropolitan  National  Bank,  Judge  C.  K. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  203 

Washburne  yesterday  issued  a  warrant  for  the  arrest  of 
the  young  man  on  a  felony  charge.  The  poHce  search  for 
Kennedy  and  his  young  wife,  a  former  candy-store  girl, 
has  so  far  proved  fruitless.  Interviewed  at  his  residence 
in  Los  Angeles  last  night,  former  Judge  G.  H.  Kennedy, 
father  of  the  missing  man,  controller  of  the  Central  Trust 
Company  until  his  indictment  some  years  ago  for  mis- 
handling its  funds,  denied  knowledge  of  his  son's  where- 
abouts, saying  that  he  had  not  been  on  good  terms  with  his 
son  for  several  years. 

After  some  time  she  was  able  to  rise  and  walk 
quite  steadily  across  the  lobby.  Her  hand  on  the 
banister  kept  her  from  stumbling  very  much  while 
she  went  up-stairs.  There  was  darkness  in  her 
room,  and  it  covered  her  like  a  shield.  She  stood 
straight  and  still,  one  hand  pressing  against  the 
wall. 

It  was  Saturday  night,  and  in  the  happy  custom 
of  the  oil  fields  a  block  of  the  oiled  street  had  been 
roped  off  for  dancing.  Already  the  musicians  were 
tuning  their  instruments.  Impatient  drillers  and 
tool-dressers,  with  their  best  girls,  were  cheering 
their  efforts  with  bantering  applause.  The  ropes 
were  giving  way  before  the  pressure  of  the  holiday 
crowd  in  a  tumult  of  shouts  and  laughter. 

Suddenly,  with  a  rollicking  swing,  the  band  be- 
gan to  play.  The  tune  rose  gaily  through  the  hot, 
still  night,  and  beneath  it  ran  a  rustling  undertone, 
the  shuffling  of  many  dancing   feet.     Below  her 


204  DIVERGING  ROADS 

window  the  pavement  was  a  swirl  of  movement  and 
color.  Her  body  relaxed  slowly,  letting  her  down 
into  a  crumpled  heap,  and  she  lay  against  the 
window-sill  with  her  face  hidden  in  the  circle  of 
her  arms. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MORNING  came  like  a  change  in  an  intermin- 
able delirium.  Light  poured  in  through  the 
open  window,  and  the  smothering  heat  of  the  night 
gave  way  to  the  burning  heat  of  the  day.  Helen 
sat  up  on  the  tumbled  bed,  pressing  her  palms 
against  her  forehead,  and  tried  to  think. 

The  realization  of  her  own  position  did  not  rouse 
any  emotion.  Her  mind  stated  the  situation  baldly 
and  she  looked  at  it  with  impersonal  detachment. 
It  seemed  a  curious  fact  that  she  should  be  in  a 
hotel  in  the  oil  fields,  without  money,  with  no  way 
of  getting  food,  with  no  means  of  leaving  the  place, 
owing  bills  that  she  could  not  pay. 

"Odd  I'm  not  more  excited,"  she  said,  and  in 
the  same  instant  forgot  about  it. 

The  thought  of  Bert  did  not  hurt  her  any  more, 
either.  She  felt  it  as  a  blow  on  a  spot  numbed  by 
an  anesthetic.  But  slowly,  out  of  the  chaos  in  her 
brain,  there  emerged  one  thought.  She  must  do 
something  to  help  him. 

She  did  not  need  to  tell  herself  that  he  had  not 
meant  to  break  the  law ;  she  knew  that.  She  under- 
stood that  he  had  meant  to  cover  the  check,  that 
he  was  in  danger  because  of  some  accident  or  mis- 

ao5 


2o6  DIVERGING  ROADS 

calculation.  In  the  saner  daylight  the  succession  of 
events  that  had  led  to  this  monstrous  catastrophe  be- 
came clear  to  her.  Bert's  over-wrought  self-con- 
fidence when  he  brought  her  the  gold,  his  feverish 
insistence  that  this  was  a  good  territory  for  land 
sales,  his  excitement  when  he  rushed  away,  believ- 
ing that  he  could  sell  a  farm  to  that  shifty-eyed 
woman  with  the  hat-box,  should  have  told  her  the 
situation. 

Just  because  Bert  had  made  that  tiny  mistake  in 
judgment —  A  frenzy  of  protest  rose  in  Helen, 
beating  itself  against  the  inexorable  fact.  It  could 
not  be  true!  It  could  not  be  true  that  so  small  an 
incident  had  brought  such  calamity.  It  was  a  night- 
mare.    She  would  nq^  believe  it. 

"  O  Bert !  It  is  n't  true !  It  is  n  t  —  it  is  n't  — 
O  Bert ! "  She  stopped  that  in  harsh  self -con- 
tempt. It  was  true.  "  Get  up  and  face  it,  you 
coward,   you  coward ! '' 

She  made  herself  rise,  bathed  her  face  and  shoul- 
ders with  cool  water.  The  mirror  showed  her  dull 
eyes  and  a  mass  of  frowsy  hair  stuck  through  with 
hairpins.  She  took  out  the  pins  and  began  tugging 
at  the  snarls  with  a  comb.  Everything  had  be- 
come unreal:  the  solid  walls  about  her,  the  voices 
coming  up  from  the  street  below,  impalpable 
things;  she  herself  was  least  real  of  all,  a  shadow 
moving  among  shadows.  But  she  must  go  on; 
she  must  do  something. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  207 

Money.  Bert  needed  money.  It  was  the  only 
thing  that  stood  between  him  and  unthinkable  hor- 
rors of  suffering  and  disgrace.  His  father  would 
not  help  him.  Her  people  could  not.  Somehow 
she  must  get  money,  a  great  deal  of  money. 

She  did  not  think  out  the  idea;  it  was  suddenly 
there  in  her  mind.  It  was  a  chance,  the  only  one. 
She  stood  at  the  window,  looking  out  over  the  low 
roofs  of  Coalinga  to  the  sand  hills  covered  with 
derricks.  There  was  money  there.  "  Millions  of 
dollars  a  year."  She  would  take  Bert's  vacant 
place,  sell  the  farm  he  had  failed  to  sell,  save  him. 

Her  normal  self  was  as  lifeless  as  if  it  were  in  a 
trance,  but  beneath  its  dull  weight  a  small  clear 
brain  worked  as  steadily  as  the  ticking  of  a  clock. 
It  knew  Ripley  Farmland  Acres;  it  recalled  scraps 
of  talk  with  the  salesmen;  it  reminded  her  of  pho- 
tographs and  blank  forms  and  price  lists.  She 
dressed  quickly,  twisting  her  hair  into  a  tidy  knot, 
dashing  talcum  powder  on  her  perspiring  face  and 
neck.  From  Bert's  suitcase  she  hurriedly  gathered 
a  bunch  of  Ripley  Farmland  Acres  literature  and 
tucked  it  into  a  salesman's  leather  wallet.  At  the 
door  she  turned  back  to  get  a  pencil. 

The  hotel  was  an  empty  place  to  her.  If  the 
idlers  looked  at  her  curiously  over  their  waving 
fans  when  she  went  through  the  lobby  she  did  not 
know  it.  It  was  like  opening  the  door  of  an  oven 
to  meet  the  white  glare  of  the  street,  but  she  walked 


2o8  DIVERGING  ROADS 

briskly  into  it.  She  knew  where  to  find  the  liv- 
ery-stable, and  to  the  man  who  lounged  from  its 
hay-scented  dimness  to  meet  her  she  said  crisply: 

"  I  want  a  horse  and  buggy  right  away,  please." 

She  waited  on  the  worn  boards  of  the  driveway 
while  he  brought  out  a  horse  and  backed  it  be- 
tween the  ^afts.  He  remarked  that  it  was  a  hot 
day;  he  inquired  casually  if  she  was  going  far. 
To  the  oil  fields,  she  said.  East  or  west?  "  East," 
she  replied  at  a  venture.  "Oh,  the  Limited?" 
Yes,  the  Limited,  she  agreed.  When  she  had 
climbed  into  the  buggy  and  picked  up  the  reins,  it 
occurred  to  her  to  ask  him  what  road  to  take. 

When  she  had  passed  Whiskey  Row  the  road 
ran  straight  before  her,  a  black  line  of  oiled  sand 
drawn  to  a  vanishing-point  on  the  level  desert. 
The  horse  trotted  on  with  patient  perseverance,  the 
parched  buggy  rattled  behind  him,  and  she  sat 
motionless  with  the  reins  in  her  hands.  Around 
her  the  air  quivered  in  great  waves  above  the  hot 
yellow  sand;  it  rippled  above  the  black  road  like 
the  colorless  vibrations  on  the  lid  of  a  stove.  Far 
ahead  she  saw  a  small  dot,  which  she  supposed  was 
the  Limited.  She  would  arouse  herself  when  she 
reached  it.  Her  brain  was  as  motionless  as  her 
body,  waiting. 

Centuries  went  past  her.  She  reached  the  dot, 
and  found  a  watering-trough  and  an  empty  house. 
She  unchecked  the  horse,  who  plunged  his  nose  eag- 


DIVERGING  ROADS  209 

criy  into  the  water.  His  sides  were  rimed  with 
dried  sweat,  and  with  the  drinking  can  she  poured 
over  him  water,  which  almost  instantly  evaporated. 
She  was  sorry  for  him. 

When  she  was  in  the  buggy  again  and  he  was 
once  more  trotting  patiently  down  the  long  road 
she  found  that  she  was  looking  at  herself  and  him 
from  some  far  distance,  and  finding  it  fantastic  that 
one  little  animal  should  be  sitting  upright  in  a  con- 
trivance of  wood  and  leather,  while  another  little 
animal  drew  it  industriously  across  a  minute  portion 
of  the  earth's  surface.  Her  mind  became  motion- 
less again,  as  though  suspended  in  the  quivering  in- 
tensity of  heat. 

Hours  later  she  saw  that  the  road  was  winding 
over  hills  of  sand.  A  few  derricks  were  scattered 
upon  them.  She  stopped  at  another  watering- 
trough,  and  in  the  house  beside  it  a  faded  woman, 
keeping  the  screen  door  hooked  between  them,  told 
her  that  the  Limited  was  four  miles  farther  on. 
It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  ask  anything  more.  Her 
mind  was  set,  like  an  alarm  clock,  for  the  Limited. 

She  drove  into  it  at  last.  It  was  like  a  small 
part  of  a  city,  hacked  off  and  set  freakishly  in  a 
hollow  of  the  sand  hils.  A  dozen  huge  factory 
buildings  faced  a  row  of  two-story  bunkhouses. 
Loaded  wagons  clattered  down  the  street  between 
them,  and  electric  power  wires  crisscrossed  over- 
head.    On  the  hillside  was  a  group  of  small  cot- 


2IO  DIVERGING  ROADS 

tages,  their  porches  curtained  with  wilting  vines. 
When  she  had  tied  the  horse  in  the  shade  she  stood 
for  a  moment,  feeling  all  her  courage  and  strength 
gathering  within  her.     Then  she  went  up  the  hill. 

The  screen  doors  of  the  cottages  opened  to  her. 
She  heard  herself  talking  pleasantly,  knew  that  she 
was  smiling,  and  saw  answering  smiles.  Tired 
women  with  lines  in  their  sallow  faces  tipped  the 
earthern  ollas  to  give  her  a  cool  drink,  pushed  for- 
ward chairs  for  her.  Brown-skinned  children  came 
shyly  to  her  and  touched  her  dress  with  sticky  little 
fingers,  laughing  when  she  patted  their  cheeks  and 
asked  their  names.  Mothers  showedsher  white  little 
babies  gasping  in  the  heat,  and  she  smiled  over  them, 
saying  how  pretty  they  were.  Beneath  it  all  she 
felt  trapped  and  desperate. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  these  women  should  have 
started  at  the  sight  of  her  as  at  a  death's-head. 
There  was  nothing  but  friendly  interest  in  their 
eyes,  and  their  obliviousness  gave  her  the  comfort 
that  darkness  gives  to  a  tortured  animal.  The  hours 
were  going  by,  relentlessly  taking  her  one  hope. 

"Do  you  own  any  California  land?" 

"  Yes."  There  would  be  a  flicker  of  pride  in 
tired  eyes.  "  My  husband  just  bought  forty  acres 
last  week,  near  Merced.  We  're  going  to  pay  for 
it  out  of  his  wages,  and  have  it  to  go  to  some  day !  " 

"  Is  n't  that  fine !  Oh  yes,  the  land  near  Merced 
is  very  good  land.     Your  husband  's  probably  done 


DIVERGING  ROADS  211 

very  well.  Do  you  know  any  one  else  who  's  look- 
ing  for  a   ranch  ?  "     No  one  did. 

She  kept  on  doggedly.  When  she  left  each  cot- 
tage desperation  clutched  at  her  throat,  and  for  an 
instant  her  breath  stopped.  But  she  was  so  hope- 
less that  she  could  do  nothing  but  clench  her  teeth 
and  go  on.  At  the  next  door  she  smiled  again  and 
her  voice  was  pleasant.  "  Good  afternoon !  Might 
I  ask  you  for  a  drink  of  water?  Oh,  thank  you! 
Yes,  is  n't  it  hot?  I  'm  selling  farm  land.  Do  you 
own  a  CaHfornia  ranch?" 

It  was  when  she  approached  the  sixteenth  cottage 
that  the  steps,  the  wilted  vine,  the  little  porch  went 
out  in  blackness  before  her  eyes.  But  she  escaped 
the  catastrophe,  and  almost  at  once  saw  them  clearly 
again  and  felt  the  gate-post  under  her  tight  fingers. 
The  taste  in  her  mouth  was  blood.  She  had  bitten 
her  lips  quite  badly,  but  wiping  her  mouth  with  her 
handkerchief  she  found  that  it  did  not  show.  She 
was  past  caring  for  anything  but  finding  some  one 
who  would  buy  land.  All  her  powers  of  thinking 
had  narrowed  to  that  and  were  concentrated  upon 
it  like  a  strong  light  on  a  tiny  spot. 

In  the  twentieth  cottage  a  woman  said  that  she 
had  heard  that  Mr.  MacAdams,  who  worked  in  the 
boiler  factory,  had  been  to  Fresno  to  buy  land  and 
had  not  bought  it.  Helen  thanked  her,  and  went  to 
the  boiler  factory. 

It  was  a  large  building,  set  high  above  the  ground. 


212  DIVERGING  ROADS 

Circling  it,  she  saw  a  man  in  overalls  and  under- 
shirt lounging  in  a  wide  doorway  above  her.  The 
roar  and  bang  and  whir  of  machinery  behind  him 
drowned  her  voice,  and  he  stared  at  her  as  at  an 
apparition.  When  he  leaped  down  beside  her  and 
understood  her  demand  to  see  Mr.  MacAdams  his 
expression  of  perplexity  changed  to  a  broad  grin. 
MacAdams  was  in  a  boiler,  he  said,  and  still  grin- 
ning, he  climbed  back  to  the  door-step  and  drew  her 
up  by  one  arm  into  a  huge  room  shaking  with  noise. 
He  led  her  through  crashing  confusion  and  with 
his  pipe-stem  pointed  out  MacAdams. 

MacAdams  was  crouching  in  a  big  cylinder  of 
steel.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  jerking  riveter,  and 
the  boiler  vibrated  with  its  racket.  His  ears  were 
stuffed  with  cotton,  his  eyes  intent  on  his  work.  In 
mute  show  Helen  thanked  the  man  beside  her  and, 
going  down  on  her  hands  and  knees,  crawled  into 
the  boiler.  When  she  touched  MacAdam*s  shoulder 
the  riveter  stopped. 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,^  she  said.  "  I  heard  you 
were  interested  in  buying  a  ranch.** 

MacAdam's  astonishment  was  profound.  Me- 
chanically he  put  a  cold  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  took 
it  out  again.  She  saw  that  his  mind  was  passive 
under  the  shock.  Sitting  back  on  her  heels  she 
opened  the  wallet  and  took  out  the  pictures.  Her 
voice  sounded  thin  in  her  ears. 

"  There 's  lots  of  good  land  in  California.     I 


DIVERGING  ROADS  213 

would  n't  try  to  tell  you,  Mr.  MacAdams,  that  ours 
is  the  only  land  a  man  can  make  money  by  buying. 
But  what  do  you  think  of  that  alfalfa?  " 

She  knew  that  it  was  alfalfa  because  the  picture 
was  so  marked  on  the  back.  While  he  looked  at 
it  she  studied  him,  and  her  life  was  blank  except 
for  his  square  Scotch  face,  the  deliberate  mind  be- 
hind it,  and  her  intensity  of  purpose. 

She  saw  that  she  must  not  talk  too  much.  His 
mind  worked  slowly,  standing  firmly  at  each  point 
it  reached.  He  must  think  he  was  making  his  own 
decisions.  She  must  guide  them  by  questions,  not 
statements.  He  would  be  obstinate  before  definite 
statements.  He  was  interested.  He  handed  back 
the  picture  and  asked  a  question.  She  answered  it 
from  the  information  in  the  advertising,  and  while 
she  let  him  reach  for  another  picture  she  thought 
quickly  that  she  must  not  let  him  catch  her  in  a 
lie.  If  he  asked  a  question,  the  answer  to  which 
she  did  not  know,  she  must  say  so.  She  was  ready 
when  it  came. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  she  answered.  "  We 
can  find  out  on  the  land  if  you  want  to  go  and  look 
at  it." 

He  was  noncommittal.  She  let  the  point  go. 
She  felt  that  her  life  itself  hung  on  his  decisions, 
and  she  could  do  nothing  to  hasten  them.  Her 
hands  were  shaking,  and  she  forced  her  body  to 
relax.     She  unfolded  a  map  of  Ripley  Farmland 


214  DIVERGING  ROADS 

Acres  and  pointed  out  the  proposed  railroad,  the 
highway,  the  irrigation  canals.  She  made  him  ask 
why  part  of  the  map  was  painted  red,  and  then  told 
him  that  those  farms  were  sold.  He  was  impressed. 
She  folded  the  map  a  second  too  soon,  leaving  his 
interest   unsatisfied. 

He  said  he  thought  the  proposition  was  worth 
looking  into.  She  did  not  reply  because  she  feared 
her  voice  would  not  be  steady.  In  the  pause  he 
added  that  he  would  go  over  and  look  at  it  next 
Tuesday.  She  unfolded  the  map  again.  Her 
fingers  were  cold  and  stiff  paper  rattled  between 
them,  but  the  moment  had  come  to  test  her  success, 
and  she  would  not  deceive  herself  with  false  hopes. 

She  told  him  that  she  wanted  to  reserve  a  cer- 
tain farm  for  him  to  see.  She  pointed  it  out  at  ran- 
dom. It  was  a  very  good  piece,  she  said,  the  best 
piece  unsold.  She  feared  it  would  be  sold  before 
Tuesday.  It  could  not  be  held  unless  he  would 
pay  a  deposit  on  it.  If  he  did  not  buy  it  the  de- 
posit would  be  returned. 

"  You  don't  want  to  waste  your  time,  Mr.  Mac- 
Adams,  and  neither  do  I."  She  felt  the  foundations 
of  her  self-control  shaking,  but  she  went  on,  looking 
at  him  squarely.  "If  this  piece  suits  you,  you  will 
buy  it,  won't  you  ?  '* 

He  would.     If  it  suited  him. 

"  Then  please  let  me  hold  it  until  I  can  show  it 
to  you." 


DIVERGING  ROADS  215 

She  waited  while  time  ticked  by  slowly.  Then 
he  leaned  sidewise,  putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket. 
"  How  much  will  I  have  to  put  up  ?  " 

When  she  backed  out  of  the  boiler  five  minutes 
later  she  had  a  twenty-dollar  gold  piece  in  her  hand, 
and  in  her  wallet  was  the  yellow  slip  of  paper  with 
his  signature  on  the  dotted  line.  She  stumbled 
down  a  lane  between  whirring  machinery  and 
dropped  over  a  door-sill  into  the  hot  dust 
of  the  road.  Her  grip  on  herself  was 
being  shaken  loose  by  unconquerable  forces.  She 
ran  blindly  to  the  buggy,  and  when  she  had  some- 
how got  into  it  she  heard  herself  laughing  through 
sobs  in  her  throat.  The  horse  trotted  gladly  toward 
Coalinga. 

During  the  long  drive  across  the  desert  she  sat 
relaxed,  too  weary  to  be  troubled  or  pleased  by  any- 
thing. The  sun  sank  slowly  beyond  cool  blue  hills, 
and  darkness  crept  down  from  them  across  the 
level  miles  of  sand.  A  crescent  of  twinkling  lights 
appeared  on  the  lower  slopes,  where  the  western  oil 
fields  lay.  Their  lower  rim  was  Coalinga,  and  she 
thought  of  bed  and  sleep.  Clutching  the  gold  piece, 
she  reminded  herself  that  she  must  eat.  She  must 
keep  up  her  strength  until  she  had  sold  that  piece 
of  land.  She  was  too  tired  to  face  that  effort  now. 
The  horse  took  her  quickly  past  Whiskey  Row  and 
dashed  to  the  livery-stable.    She  climbed  down  stiffly. 

**  Charge  it."     Her  voice  was  stiff,  too.     "  Clark 


Ji6  DIVERGING  ROADS 

&  Hayward,  San  Francisco.  I  'm  representing 
them.     H.  D.  Kennedy  —  I  'm  at  the  hotel." 

Her  body  lagged  as  she  drove  it  to  the  telegraph- 
office.  She  had  written  a  telegram  to  Clark  &  Hay- 
ward  before  she  realized  that  she  dared  not  face 
any  inquiry  until  after  Tuesday.  It  occurred  to  her 
then  that  she  had  committed  a  crime.  She  was  not 
certain  what  it  was,  but  she  thought  it  was  obtaining 
money  under  false  pretenses.  She  destroyed  the 
telegram. 

Later,  when  she  laid  the  twenty-dollar  gold  piece 
on  the  check  for  her  supper,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  was  embezzling.  A  discrepancy  vaguely  irri- 
tated her.  Could  one  obtain  money  under  false 
pretenses  and  then  embezzle  it,  too?  She  was  too 
tired  to  be  deeply  concerned,  but  as  an  abstract  ques- 
tion it  annoyed  her.  The  waitress  looked  at  her 
sharply,  and  she  wondered  if  she  had  said  something 
about  it.  In  a  haze  she  got  up  the  stairs  and  into 
bed. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

VERY  early  Tuesday  morning  she  drove  to  the 
Limited  lease  and  got  MacAdams.  He  looked 
formidable  in  his  good  clothes,  and  now  that  he  had 
shaved  the  scrubby  gray  beard  his  chin  had  an  even 
more  obstinate  line.  She  talked  to  him  in  an  easy 
and  friendly  manner,  without  mentioning  land. 
She  must  not  waste  her  strength.  There  was  a 
struggle  before  her  and  a  menace  behind.  She 
had  opened  a  livery-stable  account  against  Clark  & 
Hay  ward,  who  had  never  heard  of  her.  The  ho- 
tel, she  knew,  had  let  her  go  only  because  she  took 
no  baggage  and  had  told  the  clerk  casually  that  she 
would  return  to-morrow.  The  ticket  to  Ripley  left 
five  dollars  of  the  twenty  that  belonged  to  Mac- 
Adams.  And  every  moment  that  the  sale  was  de- 
layed might  make  it  impossible  to  save  Bert. 

She  sat  smiling,  listening  to  a  tale  of  MacAdams' 
youth,  when  he  was  a  sea- faring  man. 

The  train  reached  Fresno,  and  MacAdam's  gaze 
rested  with  joy  on  leafy  orchards  and  vineyards 
and  the  cool  green  of  alfalfa  fields.  She  perceived 
the  effect  upon  him  of  that  refreshing  contrast  with 
the  arid  desert.     Before  they  reached  Ripley  his 

217 


2i8  DIVERGING  ROADS 

mind  would  be  adjusted  to  a  green  land  and  ditches 
filled  with  running  water.     She  had  lost  one  point. 

Her  attention  concentrated  upon  the  thoughts 
slowly  forming  in  his  mind.  Each  word  he  spoke 
was  an  indication  which  she  seized,  considered, 
turned  this  way  and  that,  searching  for  the  roots 
of  it,  the  implications  growing  from  it. 

The  train  was  now  running  across  a  level  plain 
covered  with  dry  grass.  Desolation  was  written 
upon  it,  and  small  unpainted  houses  stood  here  and 
there  like  periods  at  the  end  of  sentences  expressing 
the  futility  of  human  hope.  She  smiled  above  a 
sinking  heart.     They  alighted  at  Ripley. 

She  had  never  seen  the  town  before,  and  she  saw 
now,  with  MacAdam's  eyes,  a  yellow  station,  several 
big  warehouses,  a  wide  dusty  road  into  which  a 
street  of  two-story  buildings  ran  at  right  angles. 
It  was  not  much  larger  than  Coalinga.  She  looked 
anxiously  for  the  agent  from  Ripley  Farmland 
Acres.  That  morning  she  had  telegraphed  him  to 
meet  her. 

He  came  toward  them  and  shook  MacAdams' 
hand  heartily.  His  name  was  Nichols.  He  had  a 
consciously  frank  eye,  and  a  smooth  manner.  He 
hustled  them  toward  a  dusty  automobile  whose  sides 
were  covered  with  canvas  advertisements  of  the 
tract,  and  put  MacAdams  into  the  front  seat  beside 
him. 

The  machine,  stirring  a  cloud  of  dust  behind  it. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  219 

rattled  down  the  road  between  fields  of  dry  stubble. 
She  was  ignored  in  the  back  seat.  Nichols  had 
taken  the  situation  out  of  her  hands,  and  she  did  not 
trust  him.  However,  she  could  not  trust  herself, 
in  the  midst  of  her  uncertainties  and  ignorance. 

Nichols  talked  too  much  and  too  enthusiastically. 
She  was  astounded  by  his  blindness.  To  her  it 
seemed  obvious  that  his  words  were  of  little  im- 
portance. It  was  what  MacAdams  said  that  mat- 
tered. He  gave  MacAdams  no  silences  in  which 
to  speak,  and  he  appeared  oblivious  to  the  fact  that 
MacAdams,  gazing  contemplatively  at  the  sky-line, 
said  nothing. 

They  drove  beneath  an  elaborate  plaster  gateway 
into  the  tract.  Seventy  thousand  acres  of  scorched 
dry  grass  lay  before  them,  stretching  unbroken  to  a 
misty  level  horizon.  Over  it  was  the  great  arch  of 
a  hot  sky. 

The  machine  carried  them  out  into  the  waves  of 
dry  grass  like  the  smallest  of  boats  putting  out  into 
an  ocean  of  aridity.  When  it  stopped  the  sun 
poured  its  heat  upon  them  and  dust  settled  on  per- 
spiring hands  and  faces.  Nichols  unrolled  a  map 
and  talked  with  galvanic  enthusiasm.  He  talked  in- 
cessantly and  his  phrases  seemed  worn  threadbare 
by  previous  repetition.  MacAdams  said  nothing, 
and  Helen  tried  to  devise  a  way  to  ask  Nichols  to 
stop  talking. 

His  manner  had  dropped  her  outside  of  consid- 


220  DIVERGING  ROADS 

eration,  save  as  a  woman  for  whom  automobile- 
doors  must  be  opened.  She  saw  that  he  felt  her 
presence  as  a  handicap  in  this  affair  between  men; 
he  apologized  for  saying  "  damn,"  and  his  apology- 
conveyed  resentment.  He  was  losing  her  the  sale, 
and  she  could  not  interfere.  Her  only  hope  of 
saving  Bert  rested  on  this  sale.  She  controlled  a 
rising  desperation,  and  smiled  at  him. 

They  got  out  of  the  machine  and  waded  through 
dusty  grass,  searching  for  surveyor's  posts.  Nich- 
ols pointed  out  the  luxuriant  growth  of  wild  hay, 
asked  Mac  Adams  what  he  thought  of  that,  continued 
without  a  pause  to  pour  facts  and  figures  upon  him, 
heedless  that  he  received  no  reply.  They  got  into 
the  car  again  and  Nichols,  pulling  a  pad  of  blanks 
from  his  pocket,  tried  to  make  MacAdams  buy  a 
certain  piece  of  land  then  and  there.  He  attacked 
obliquely,  as  if  expecting  to  trap  MacAdams  into 
signing  his  name,  and  MacAdams  answered  as 
warily.  "  Well,  I  have  seen  worse.  And  I  have 
seen  better."  He  lighted  his  pipe  and  listened 
equably.     He  did  not  sign  his  name. 

They  drove  further  down  the  road  and  got  out 
again.  Helen  caught  Nichols'  sleeve,  and  though 
he  shook  his  arm  impatiently  she  held  him  until 
MacAdams  had  walked  some  distance  away  and 
picked  up  a  lump  of  soil. 

"  Leave  him  to  me,  please,"  she  said. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  the  tract  ?  " 


DIVERGING  ROADS  221 

"  Just  the  same,  I  wish  you  'd  give  me  a  chance, 
please." 

"  Do  you  want  to  sell  him  or  don't  you  ?  I  know 
how  to  handle  prospects." 

They  spoke  quickly.  Already  MacAdams  was 
turning  his  head. 

"  He  's  my  prospect.  And,  by  God !  I  'm  going 
to  sell  him  or  lose  him  myself ! "  Her  words 
shocked  her  like  a  thunderclap,  but  the  shock  stead- 
ied her.  And  Nichols'  overthrow  was  complete. 
He  said  hardly  a  word  when  they  reached  Mac- 
Adams. 

Almost  in  silence  they  examined  that  piece  of 
land.  MacAdams  walked  to  each  of  its  corners; 
he  looked  at  the  map  for  some  time ;  he  asked  ques- 
tions that  Nichols  answered  briefly.  He  pulled  up 
clumps  of  grass  and  looked  at  the  earth  on  their 
roots.  At  last  he  walked  back  to  the  machine  and 
leaned  against  it,  lighting  his  pipe  leisurely  and 
looking  out  across  the  tract.  The  silence  was  palpi- 
tant. When  she  saw  that  he  did  not  mean  to  break 
it,  Helen  asked,  "  Shall  we  look  at  another  piece  ?  " 

"  No.     I  've  seen  enough." 

They  got  into  the  machine,  and  this  time  Nichols 
was  alone  on  the  front  seat.  They  drove  back 
toward  the  tract  office.  The  sun  was  sinking,  and 
a  gray  light  lay  over  the  empty  fields.  Helen  felt 
herself  part  of  it.  She  had  lost,  and  nothing  mat- 
tered any  more.     She  had  no  more  to  lose.     She 


222  DIVERGING  ROADS 

kept  up  the  hopeless  effort,  but  the  approaching  end 
was  like  the  thought  of  rest  to  a  struggling  man  who 
is  drowning. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Mr.  MacAdams?  '* 

"  Well  —  I  have  seen  worse." 

"  Were  you  satisfied  with  the  soil?  " 

"  I  would  n't  say  anything  against  it." 

**  Would  you  like  us  to  show  you  anything  more 
of  the  water  system?"  What  did  she  care  about 
water  systems! 

"  No." 

The  machine  stopped  before  the  tract  office. 
They  got  out. 

"  Your  man  's  no  good.  He  's  a  looker,  not  a 
buyer,"  Nichols  said  to  her  in  an  aside. 

"  He  has  money  and  he  wants  land,"  she  an- 
swered wearily. 

"  We  '11  have  another  go  at  him.  But  it 's  no 
use." 

They  went  into  the  office.  A  smoky  lamp  stood 
on  a  desk  Httered  with  papers.  MacAdams  asked 
when  the  train  left  Ripley.  Nichols  told  him  that 
they  had  half  an  hour.  They  sat  down,  and  Nich- 
ols, drawing  his  chair  briskly  to  the  desk,  began. 

"  Now,  Mr.  MacAdams,  in  buying  land  you  have 
to  consider  four  things;  land,  water,  climate,  and 
markets.     Our  land  — " 

She  could  not  go  back  to  Coalinga  with  him. 
Probably  there  would  be  a  warrant  out  for  her  ar- 


DIVERGING  ROADS  223 

rest.  Oh,  Bert!  She  had  done  her  best,  her  very 
best.  There  were  five  dollars  left,  MacAdams  's 
money.  The  whole  thing  was  unreal.  She  was 
dreaming  it. 

Nichols  was  leading  him  up  to  the  decision. 
MacAdams  evaded  it.  Nichols  began  again.  The 
blank  form  was  out  now  and  the  fountain-pen 
ready. 

"You  like  the  piece,  don't  you?  You're  satis- 
fied with  it.  You  've  found  everything  exactly  as 
we  represented  it.  It 's  the  best  buy  on  the  tract. 
Well,  now  we  '11  just  close  it  up." 

MacAdams  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  gazed 
at  the  map  on  the  wall.  "  I  'm  not  saying  it  is  n't 
a  good  proposition." 

Nichols  began  again.  Was  forty  acres  more  than 
MacAdams  wanted  to  carry?  MacAdams  would 
not  exactly  say  that.  Would  a  change  in  the  terms 
be  more  convenient  for  him?  MacAdams  had  no 
fault  to  find  with  the  terms.  Did  the  question  of 
getting  the  land  into  crop  trouble  him?  No. 
Well,  then  they  'd  get  down  to  the  point.  The 
payments  on  this  piece  would  be  — "  I  '11  not  be 
missing  my  train,  Mr.  Nichols  ?  '* 

Patiently  Nichols  went  back  to  the  beginning. 
Land,  water,  transportation,  and  cli  —  Helen  could 
endure  it  no  longer.  One  straight  question  would 
end  it,  would  leave  her  facing  certainty.  She  leaned 
forward  and  heard  her  own  voice. 


224  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  Mr.  MacAdams,  you  came  to  look  at  this  land. 
You  Ve  looked  at  it.     Do  you  want  it?  '* 

There  was  one  startled,  arrested  gesture  from 
Nichols.  Then  they  remained  motionless.  The 
clock  ticked  loudly.  Slowly  MacAdams  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  straightened  one  leg,  put  his  hand 
into  his  trouser  pocket.  He  pulled  out  a  grimy  can- 
vas bag. 

"Yes.     How  much  is  the  first  payment?*' 

Deliberately  he  poured  out  on  the  desk  a  heap 
of  golden  coins.  His  stubby  fingers  extracted  from 
the  sack  a  wad  of  banknotes.  Nichols  was  figuring 
madly.  "  Twelve  hundred  and  seventy-three  dol- 
lars and  ninety  cents,"  he  announced  in  a  shaking 
voice.  MacAdams  counted  it  out  with  exactness. 
He  signed  the  contract.  Nichols  recounted  the 
money  and  sealed  it  in  an  envelope.     They  rose. 

Helen  found  herself  stumbling  against  the  side 
of  the  automobile,  and  felt  Nichols  squeezing  her 
arm  exultantly  while  he  helped  her  into  it.  They 
had  reached  Ripley  before  she  was  able  to  think. 
Then  she  said  that  she  would  not  return  to  Coalinga 
with  MacAdams.     They  put  him  on  the  train. 

She  told  Nichols  that  she  wanted  the  money  and 
the  contract.  She  was  going  to  take  the  next  train 
to  San  Francisco.  He  objected.  She  argued 
through  a  haze,  and  her  greatest  difficulty  was  keep- 
ing her  voice  clear.  But  she  held  tenaciously  to 
her  purpose.     Later  she  was  on  the  train  with  the 


DIVERGING  ROADS  225 

contract  and  Nichols'  check  drawn  to  Clark  &  Hay- 
ward.  She  slept  then  and  she  slept  in  the  taxicab 
on  the  way  to  a  San  Francisco  hotel.  She  felt  that 
she  was  asleep  while  she  wrote  her  name  on  a  regis- 
ter. She  shut  a  door  somehow  behind  a  bell-boy, 
and  at  last  could  sleep  undisturbed. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  she  sat  facing 
Mr.  Clark  across  a  big  flat-topped  desk.  The  con- 
tract and  Nichols'  check  lay  upon  it. 

Mr.  Clark  was  a  lean,  shrewd-looking  man  about 
forty-five  years  old.  He  gave  the  impression  of 
having  kept  his  nerves  at  high  tension  for  so  many 
years  that  now  he  must  strain  them  still  tighter 
or  relax  altogether.  This  catastrophe  he  would 
have  described  as  "  losing  his  grip/'  and  Helen  felt 
that  he  lived  in  dread  of  it  as  the  ultimate  calamity. 
They  had  been  talking  for  some  time.  Mr.  Clark 
did  not  know  where  Bert  was. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  if  we  had  known  — "  he 
said,  and  he  stopped  because  it  would  be  useless 
cruelty  to  complete  the  sentence.  She  thought  that 
he  would  not  be  cruel  unless  there  were  some  pur- 
pose to  be  achieved  by  it.  There  was  even  a  kindly 
expression  in  his  eyes  at  times. 

He  had  explained  clearly  the  situation  in  which 
her  husband  stood.  Bert  had  persuaded  the  firm  to 
give  him  an  unlimited  letter  of  credit.  "  That 
young  man  has  a  truly  remarkable  personality  as  a 


226  DIVERGING  ROADS 

salesman.  He  had  us  completely  up  in  the  air." 
He  had  proposed  a  gigantic  selling  campaign  in  the 
oil  fields,  and  had  so  filled  Clark  &  Hayward 
with  his  own  enthusiasm  that  they  had  given  him 
free  rein. 

The  campaign  had  begun  with  every  promise  of 
astounding  success.  He  had  brought  huge  crowds 
to  hear  speakers  sent  down  from  the  city ;  had  gath- 
ered the  names  of  thousands  of  "  leads  " ;  had  im- 
ported fifty  salesmen  to  canvass  these  names  and 
bring  in  prospective  buyers.  Scores  of  these  had 
been  taken  to  the  land  and  hundreds  more  were 
promised.  Clark  &  Hayward  contemplated  hiring 
special  trains  for  them. 

But  expenses  were  running  into  disquieting 
amounts  for  the  actual  results  produced.  Bert's 
checks  poured  in,  and  there  began  to  be  annoying 
rumors.  The  firm  had  begun  a  quiet  investigation 
and  had  decided  that  he  was  spending  too  much 
of  their  money  for  personal  expenses.  Mr.  Clark 
need  not  go  into  details.  They  had  withdrawn  the 
letter  of  credit  and  advised  creditors  in  Bakersfield 
that  the  firm  would  no  longer  pay  Mr.  Kennedy's 
bills. 

Mr.  Kennedy  had  been  informed  of  this.  He  had 
taken  one  of  the  firm's  automobiles  and  disappeared. 
Later  his  check  had  come  in.  Clark  &  Hayward 
could  not  make  that  good,  in  addition  to  their  other 
losses.     The  matter  was  now  entirely  out  of  their 


DIVERGING  ROADS  227 

hands.  Mr.  Clark's  gesture  placed  it  in  the  hands 
of  inscrutable  fate.  He  was  more  interested  in  the 
MacAdams  sale  and  the  unexpected  appearance  of 
Helen. 

However,  under  her  insistence  he  admitted  that 
if  the  check  were  made  good,  Clark  &  Hay  ward 
could  persuade  the  bank  not  to  press  the  charge. 
Of  course  the  warrant  was  out,  but  there  were  ways. 
He  undertook  to  employ  them  for  her,  thoughtfully 
fingering  Nichols'  check.  As  to  finding  Bert  — 
well,  if  the  police  had  failed  — 

Helen  asked  how  much  Bert  owed  the  firm.  Mr. 
Clark  told  her  that  the  sum  was  roughly  five  thou- 
sand dollars. 

"  In  thirty  days !  Why  —  but  —  how  is  it  pos- 
sible?" 

The  amount  included  the  cost  of  the  automobile. 
The  balance  was  Mr.  Kennedy's  personal  expenses, 
not  included  in  his  arrangement  with  the  firm. 
"  Wine  —  ah  — "  Mr.  Clark  did  not  complete  the 
triology.  "  Mr.  Kennedy's  —  recreations  were  ex- 
pensive."    He  would  have  the  account  itemized? 

"  Oh,  no.  It  is  n't  necessary,"  said  Helen.  She 
would  like  to  know  only  the  exact  sum.  Mr.  Clark 
pressed  a  button  and  asked  the  girl  who  answered 
it  to  look  up  the  amount.  **  And,  by  the  way,  have 
this  sale  entered  on  the  books,  and  a  check  made  out 
to—?" 

"  H.  D.  Kennedy,"  said  Helen. 


228  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  To  H.  D.  Kennedy  for  the  commissions.  Seven 
and  a  half  per  cent." 

"  You  were  paying  the  other  salesmen  fifteen 
per  cent,"  said  Helen. 

That  was  by  special  arrangement.  The  ordinary 
salesmen  in  the  field  were  paid  seven  and  a  half 
percent.  Helen  accepted  the  statement,  being  un- 
able to  refute  it.  She  proposed  that  she  should 
continue  working  for  the  firm  on  twelve  and  a  half 
per  cent.,  five  per  cent,  to  apply  on  the  amount  Bert 
owed  them.  Mr.  Clark  countered  by  offering  her 
ten  per  cent,  with  the  same  arrangement.  She  was 
stubborn,  and  he  yielded. 

Helen  came  out  of  the  office  with  three  hundred 
dollars  in  her  purse.  She  saw  that  the  sun  was 
shining,  and  as  she  walked  through  the  crowded, 
familiar  streets,  passing  flower-stands  gay  with 
color,  feeling  the  cool  breeze  on  her  face,  and  seeing 
white  clouds  sailing  over  Twin  Peaks,  she  felt  that 
the  bright  day  was  mocking  her.  She  understood 
why  most  suicides  occur  on  days  of  sunshine. 

Her  life  was  beginning  again,  in  a  new  way, 
among  strange  surroundings.  She  thought  that  it 
would  be  pleasant  to  be  dead.  One  would  be  then 
as  she  was,  numb,  with  no  emotion,  no  interest,  no 
concern  for  anything,  and  one  would  not  have  to 
move  or  think.  "Cheer  up!  What's  the  use  of 
wishing  you  were  dead  ?    You  will  be  some  day !  *' 


DIVERGING  ROADS  229 

she  said  to  herself,  with  an  effort  to  be  humorous 
about  it. 

She  thought  that  she  would  go  out  to  the  old 
apartment,  pack  the  things  she  had  left  there,  and 
take  them  with  her.  There  was  a  hard  bitterness 
in  the  thought  that  seemed  almost  sweet  to  her. 
To  stand  unmoved  in  that  place  where  she  had  loved 
and  suffered,  to  handle  with  uncaring  hands  those 
objects  saturated  with  memories,  would  be  a  dese- 
cration of  the  past  that  would  prove  how  utterly 
dead  it  was. 

But  she  did  not  do  it.  She  telephoned  from  the 
station,  giving  up  the  apartment  and  abandoning 
the  personal  belongings  in  it,  leaving  her  address 
for  the  forwarding  of  mail.  Then  she  shut  her 
mind  against  memories  and  went  back  to  the  oil 
fields. 


CHAPTER  XV 

DURING  the  weeks  that  followed  she  felt  that 
she  was  moving  in  a  dream,  a  shadow  among 
unrealities.  She  drove  across  endless  yellow  plains 
that  wavered  in  the  heat.  The  lines  were  lax  in  her 
hands,  her  thoughts  hardly  moved.  Again  she  had 
the  sensation  of  gazing  upon  herself  from  an  infinite 
distance,  and  she  saw  her  whole  life  very  small  and 
far-away  and  unimportant. 

It  was  odd  that  she  should  be  where  she  was. — 
They  would  reach  the  watering-trough  soon,  and 
then  the  horse  could  drink. —  The  lake  she  saw  rip- 
pling upon  the  burning  sand  was  a  mirage. —  The 
horse  was  not  interested  in  it.  Horses  must  recog- 
nize water  by  smelling  it. —  The  sunlight  struck  her 
hands,  and  they  were  turning  browner.  Complex- 
ions.—  How  strange  that  women  cared  about  them. 
—  How  strange  that  any  one  cared  about  anything. 

She  reached  an  oil  lease,  and  part  of  her  brain 
awoke.  It  worked  so  smoothly  that  she  felt  an 
impersonal  pride  in  it.  It  was  concerned  only  with 
Ripley  Farmland  Acres.  It  was  intent  upon  selling 
them.  She  tapped  at  screen  doors,  and  knew  she 
was  being  charming  to  tired  women  exhausted  by 

230 


DIVERGING  ROADS  231 

heat  and  babies.  She  skirted  black  pools  of  oil, 
climbed  into  derricks, —  she  had  learned  to  call  them 
"rigs," — ^^and  heard  herself  talking  easily  to  grimy- 
men  beside  a  swaying  steel  cable  that  went  eternally 
up  and  down,  up  and  down,  in  the  well-shaft. 

Selling  land,  she  found,  was  not  the  difficult  and 
intricate  business  she  had  supposed  it  to  be.  Cali- 
fornia's great  estates,  the  huge  Mexican  grants  of 
land  now  passed  to  the  second  and  third  generations, 
were  breaking  up  under  the  pressure  of  growing 
population  and  increased  land  taxes;  for  the  first 
time  in  the  State's  history  the  land-hunger  of  the 
poor  man  could  be  satisfied.  Deep  in  the  heart  of 
every  man  imprisoned  by  those  burning  wastes  of 
desert  was  the  longing  for  a  small  bit  of  green  earth, 
a  home  embowered  in  trees  and  vines.  Her  task 
was  to  find  the  workman  who  had  saved  enough 
money  for  the  first  payment,  the  ten  or  twenty  per 
cent,  of  the  purchase  price  asked  by  the  subdividing 
land  companies,  and  having  found  him  to  play  upon 
his  longing  and  his  imagination  until  the  pictures  she 
painted  meant  more  to  him  than  his  hoarded  savings. 

Half  of  his  first  payment  was  hers ;  one  sale  meant 
to  her  five  hundred  or  even  a  thousand  dollars.  But 
while  she  talked  she  forgot  this;  she  thought  only 
of  cool  water  flowing  through  fields  of  alfalfa,  of 
cows  knee-deep  in  grass  beneath  the  shade  of  oaks,  of 
the  fertile  earth  blooming  in  harvests.  The  skill 
in  handling  another's  thoughts   before  they  took 


232  DIVERGING  ROADS 

form,  learned  in  her  life  with  Bert,  enabled  her 
to  impress  these  pictures  upon  her  hearer's  mind 
so  that  they  seemed  his  own,  and  grimy  men  in  oil- 
soaked  overalls,  listening  to  her  without  combative- 
ness  because  she  was  a  woman  and  not  to  be  taken 
seriously  in  business,  felt  that  they  must  buy  this 
land  so  temptingly  described. 

*'  I  'm  not  really  a  land-salesman,"  she  said,  be- 
lieving it.  *'  I  know  I  can't  sell  you  this  land.  I 
can  only  tell  you  about  it.  And  then  if  you  want  to 
buy  it,  you  will.  Won't  you?"  She  found  that 
she  need  only  talk  to  a  sufficient  number  of  men  to 
find  one  who  would  buy,  and  each  sale  brought  her 
enough  money  to  give  her  weeks  in  which  to  trudge 
from  derrick  to  derrick  searching  for  another  buyer. 
All  her  life  had  narrowed  to  that  search. 

She  accumulated  a  store  of  facts.  Drillers  were 
the  best  prospects  because  they  earned  good  salaries 
and  had  steady,  straight-thinking  brains.  Tool 
dressers  were  younger  men,  inclined  to  smartness, 
harder  to  handle.  Pumpers  were  lonely  and  liked 
to  talk ;  one  must  not  waste  too  much  time  on  them ; 
they  made  small  wages,  but  would  give  her  "  leads  " 
to  good  prospects.  A  superintendent  of  a  wild-cat 
lease  was  a  good  prospect;  approach  him  with  talk 
of  a  safe  investment.  Shallow  fields  were  poor  ter- 
ritory to  work;  jobs  were  longer  and  wages  surer 
among  the  deeper  wells.  At  a  house  ask  for  a  drink 
of  water ;  on  a  rig  begin  conversation  by  remarking. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  233 

"  Getting  pretty  deep,  is  n't  she  ?  "  She  was  known 
throughout  the  fields  as  the  Real-Estate  Lady. 

At  twilight  she  drove  back  to  the  hotel.  Her 
khaki  skirt  was  spattered  with  crude  oil ;  her  pongee 
waist  showed  streaks  of  grime  where  dust  had  dried 
in  perspiration.  There  was  sand  in  its  folds,  sand 
in  her  shoes,  sand  in  her  hair.  Her  body  seemed  as 
lifeless  as  her  emotions,  and  her  brain  had  stopped 
again.     She  would  not  dream  to-night. 

She  smiled  again  at  the  hotel  clerk.  Yes,  thank 
you,  business  was  fine !  There  were  letters,  no  word 
of  Bert.  Her  mother  wrote  puzzled  and  anxious 
inquiries.  What  was  Helen  doing  in  Coalinga? 
Was  something  wrong?  What  was  her  husband 
doing?  Mrs.  Updike  was  telling  that  she  had  seen 
in  the  paper  —  Helen  folded  the  pages.  There  were 
a  couple  of  thin  envelopes  from  Clark  &  Hay  ward, 
announcements  of  sales.  Farm  406  —  J.  D.  Hutch- 
inson; Farms  915-917  —  H.  D.  Kennedy. 

It  was  good  to  be  in  bed,  feeling  unconsciousness 
creeping  over  her  like  dark,  cool  water,  lapping 
higher  and  higher. 

On  her  third  trip  to  the  land  with  buyers  she  met 
Paul's  mother  on  the  main  street  in  Ripley.  Mrs. 
Masters  appeared  competent  and  self-assured,  walk- 
ing briskly  from  a  butcher-shop  with  some  packages 
on  her  arm.  She  was  bareheaded,  carrying  a  para- 
sol above  her  smooth,  gray  hair.  Small  as  she  was, 
there  was  something  formidable  in  the  lines  of  her 


234  DIVERGING  ROADS 

stocky  figure  and  in  the  crispness  of  her  stiff  white 
shirtwaist.  She  looked  at  Helen  with  shrewd,  in- 
terested eyes,  and  Helen  realized  that  her  hair  was 
untidy,  that  there  was  dust  on  her  shoes  and  on  her 
blue  serge  suit.  It  was  dust  from  the  tract  where 
she  had  just  made  another  sale.  Helen  supposed 
there  was  dust  on  her  face,  too,  when  she  perceived 
Mrs.  Masters'  eyes  fixed  so  intently  upon  it. 

They  shook  hands  and  spoke  of  the  heat.  Helen 
explained  that  she  was  selling  land.  She  had  just 
put  one  buyer  on  the  Coalinga  train  and  was  waiting 
in  Ripley  for  another  man  to  meet  her  next  day. 

Mrs.  Masters  asked  her  to  supper.  A  realization 
that  meeting  her  might  be  embarrassing  to  Paul 
flickered  through  Helen's  mind.  She  made  some 
excuse,  which  Mrs.  Masters  overruled  briskly.  The 
strain  of  making  a  sale  had  left  Helen  without 
energy  for  resistance.  She  found  they  were  walk- 
ing down  the  street  together,  and  she  tried  to  rouse 
herself,  as  one  struggles  under  an  anesthetic.  Mrs. 
Masters  was  the  first  person  to  whom  she  had  tried 
to  talk  of  anything  but  land,  and  the  effort  made  her 
realize  that  she  had  been  living  in  something  like  de- 
lirium. 

They  came  to  the  cottage  of  which  Paul  had 
written  her  long  ago.  There  was  the  little  white- 
picket  fence,  the  yard  with  rose-bushes  in  it,  and  the 
peach-tree.  The  graveled  walk  led  to  a  tiny  porch 
ornamented  with  wooden  lace  work,  and  through  a 


DIVERGING  ROADS  235 

screen  door  they,  went  into  the  parlor.  The  shades 
were  drawn  to  keep  the  afternoon  sun  from  the 
flowered  Brussels  carpet ;  the  room  was  cool  and  dim 
and  rose-scented.  There  was  a  crocheted  mat  on 
the  oak  center-table ;  cushions  stood  stiff  and  plump 
on  the  sofa;  in  one  corner  on  an  easel  was  an  en- 
larged crayon  portrait  of  Paul  as  a  little  boy. 

There  was  not  a  detail  of  the  room  that  Helen 
would  not  have  changed,  but  as  she  looked  at  it  tears 
came  unexpectedly  into  her  eyes.  Something  was 
here  that  she  wanted,  something  that  she  had  always 
missed.  Currents  of  indefinable  emotion  rose  in 
her.  Her  heart  ached,  and  suddenly  she  was  shaken 
by  a  sense  of  irretrievable  loss. 

**  I  —  I  'm  very  tired.  You  must  forgive  me  — 
a  very  hard  day.  If  I  could  —  lie  down  a  minute  ?  " 
She  could  not  stop  the  quivering  of  her  lips.  Mrs. 
Masters  looked  at  her  curiously,  leading  her  to  the 
bedroom  and  folding  back  an  immaculate  white 
spread.  Helen,  hating  herself  for  her  weakness, 
took  off  her  hat  and  lay  down.  She  would  be  all 
right  in  a  minute;  she  was  sorry  to  make  so  much 
trouble;  Mrs.  Masters  must  not  bother;  she  was  just 
a  little  tired. 

She  lay  still,  hearing  the  rattling  of  pans  and  siz- 
zling of  meat  from  the  kitchen  where  Mrs.  Masters 
was  getting  supper.  Voices  went  by  in  the  street; 
a  dog  barked  joyously;  a  shrill  whistling  passed,  ac- 
companied by  the  rattle  of  a  stick  along  the  picket 


236  DIVERGING  ROADS 

fence.  The  sharp  shadows  of  vine-leaves  on  the 
shade  blurred  into  the  twilight.  Mrs.  Masters  was 
singing  throatily,  "  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me-e-e," 
while  she  set  the  table. 

It  was  peace  and  security  and  rest.  It  was  all 
that  Helen  did  not  have.  The  crudely  papered 
walls  enclosed  a  haven  warmed  by  innumerable 
homely  satisfactions.  How  sweet  to  have  no  care 
but  the  crispness  of  curtains,  the  folding  away  of 
linen,  the  baking  of  bread !  She  was  an  alien  spirit 
here,  with  her  aching  head  and  heart,  her  disheveled 
hair  and  dusty  shoes.  A  tear  slipped  down  her 
cheek  and  spread  into  a  damp  splash  on  the  white 
pillow. 

She  rose  quickly,  knowing  that  she  must  be 
stronger  than  the  longing  that  shook  her.  The 
towel  lying  across  the  water  pitcher  was  embroid- 
ered. She  had  always  wanted  embroidered  towels, 
and  she  had  made  dozens  of  them.  They  had  been 
left  in  the  apartment.  She  bathed  her  face  for  a 
long  time,  dashing  cool  water  on  her  eyehds. 

The  gate  clicked,  and  Paul  came  whistling  up  the 
path.  She  stood  clutching  the  towel,  shivering  with 
panic.  Had  she  been  mad  that  she  had  come  to  his 
house?  Oh,  for  anything,  anything,  that  would 
erase  the  past  hour,  and  let  her  be  anywhere  but 
here !  She  heard  his  step  on  the  porch,  the  bang  of 
the  screen  door,  his  voice.  "  Hello,  Mother?  Sup- 
per ready?  "     And  at  the  same  time  she  saw  unroll- 


DIVERGING  ROADS  237 

ing  in  her  mind  the  picture  of  herself  and  Mrs.  Mas- 
ters on  the  sidewalk,  heard  the  definite,  polite  excuse 
she  might  have  made,  saw  herself  going  back  to  the 
hotel.  She  might  easily  have  done  that.  Why  was 
her  life  nothing  but  one  blundering  stupidity?  She 
waited  until  his  mother  had  time  to  tell  him  she  was 
there.     Then  she  went  out,  smiling,  and  met  him. 

His  hand  was  warm  and  strong,  closing  around 
her  cold  fingers.  He  could  not  conceal  the  shock 
her  whiteness  and  thinness  gave  him.  He  stam- 
mered something  about  it,  and  reddened.  She  saw 
that  he  felt  he  had  referred  to  Bert  and  hurt  her. 
Yes,  she  said  lightly,  the  heat  in  the  oil  fields  was 
better  than  banting.  She  rather  liked  it,  though, 
really.  And  selling  land  was  fascinating  work. 
She  found  that  she  was  clinging  to  his  hand,  draw- 
ing strength  from  it,  as  though  she  could  not  let  go. 
She  released  her  fingers  quickly,  hoping  he  had  not 
noticed  that  second's  delay,  which  meant  nothing, 
nothing  except  that  she  was  tired. 

Mrs.  Masters  sat  opposite  her  at  the  supper  table, 
and  with  those  polite,  neutral  eyes  upon  her  it  was 
hard  to  make  conversation.  She  told  the  story 
of  the  MacAdams  sale,  making  it  humorous  instead 
of  tragic,  trying  to  keep  the  talk  away  from  Mason- 
ville  and  the  people  there.  Paul  spoke  only  to  offer 
her  food,  to  advise  a  small  glass  of  his  mother's 
blackberry  cordial,  and  urge  her  to  drink  it,  to  sug- 
gest a  cushion  for  her  back.     Tears  threatened  her 


238  DIVERGING  ROADS 

eyes  again,  and  she  conquered  them  with  a  laugh. 

He  went  with  her  to  the  hotel.  They  walked  in 
silence  through  moon-light  and  shadow,  on  the  tree- 
bordered  graveled  sidewalk.  Through  lighted  cot- 
tage windows  Helen  saw  women  clearing  supper- 
tables,  men  leaning  back  in  easychairs,  with  cigar 
and  newspaper.  They  passed  groups  of  girls,  bare- 
headed, bare-armed,  chattering  in  the  moonlight. 
They  spoke  to  Paul,  and  Helen  felt  their  curious  eyes 
upon  her.  Children  were  playing  in  the  street; 
somewhere  a  baby  wailed  thinly,  and  farther  away 
a  piano  tinkled. 

"  It 's  very  lovely  —  all  this,'*  she  said. 

**  It  suits  me,"  Paul  replied.  A  litde  later  he 
cleared  his  throat  and  said,  *'  Helen  —  I  —  I  'm 
sorry." 

"  I  'm  all  right,"  she  said  quickly.  It  was  almost 
as  if  she  had  slammed  a  door  in  his  face,  and  she  did 
not  want  to  be  rude  to  him.  "  I  mean  —  it 's  good 
of  you  to  care.     I  'd  rather  not  talk  about  it." 

"I  —  sometimes  I  think  I  could  —  I  could  commit 
murder !  "  he  said  thickly.  "  When  I  get  to  think- 
mg  — 

"  Don't,"  she  said.  It  was  some  time  before  he 
spoke  again. 

"  Well,  if  there  is  ever  any  chance  for  me  to  do 
anything  —  I  guess  you  know  I  'd  be  glad  to." 

She  thanked  him.  When  he  left  her  at  the  door 
of  the  hotel  she  thanked  him  again,  and  he  asked 


DIVERGING  ROADS  239 

her  not  to  forget.  If  he  could  help  her  with  her 
sales  or  the  bank  people  or  anything —  She  said 
she  would  surely  let  him  know. 

It  was  necessary  to  sleep,  because  she  had  another 
sale,  a  hard  sale,  to  make  next  day.  But  she  was 
unable  to  do  it.  Long  after  midnight  she  was  lying 
awake,  beating  the  pillows  with  clenched  hands  and 
biting  her  lips  to  keep  from  sobbing  aloud.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  all  of  life  was  torture  and  that 
she  could  no  longer  bear  it. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

RETURNING  to  Coalinga  after  the  meeting 
with  Paul,  Helen  ached  with  weariness. 
But  she  was  alive  again.  The  haze  in  which  she  had 
been  existing  was  gone.  She  had  risen  early  that 
morning,  met  her  prospective  land-buyer  at  the  train, 
and  made  the  sale.  It  had  been  doubly  difficult,  be- 
cause the  salesman  for  Alfalfa  Tracts  had  met  the 
train,  too,  and  had  almost  taken  the  prospect  from 
her,  thinking  it  would  be  easy  to  do  because  she  was 
only  a  woman.  There  was  a  hard  triumph  in  her 
victory.  The  sale  had  reduced  Bert's  debt  by  an- 
other four  hundred  dollars,  for  she  could  afford  now 
to  turn  in  the  entire  commission  against  it. 

The  jolting  of  the  train  shook  her  relaxed  body. 
Her  cheek  lay  against  the  rough  plush  of  the  chair- 
back,  for  she  was  too  tired  to  sit  upright.  Against 
the  black  square  of  the  window  her  life  arranged 
itself  before  her.  How  many  times  she  had  seen 
her  life  lying  before  her  like  a  straight  road,  and 
had  determined  what  its  course  and  end  would  be! 
But  she  was  older  now,  and  wiser,  and  able  to  control 
her  destiny. 

She  was  a  land  salesman;  she  was  a  good  sales- 
240 


DIVERGING  ROADS  241 

man.  This  was  the  only  thing  she  had  saved  from 
wreckage.  At  least  she  would  succeed  in  this.  She 
would  make  money;  she  would  clear  Bert's  name, 
which  was  hers;  she  would  buy  a  little  house  and 
make  it  beautiful.  Perhaps  Bert  would  want  to 
come  to  it  some  day  and  she  would  have  it  waiting 
for  him.  She  knew  that  she  would  never  love  him  as 
she  had  loved  him,  for  she  saw  him  too  clearly  now, 
but  she  felt  that  their  lives  were  inextricably  bound 
together  and  that  the  tie  between  them  was  stronger 
because  he  needed  her. 

A  letter  from  Clark  &  Hayward  was  in  her  box 
at  the  hotel.  She  tore  it  open  quickly.  As  always, 
she  had  a  wild  thought  that  it  contained  news  of 
Bert. 

It  said  that  the  firm  had  given  the  oil  fields  terri- 
tory to  two  other  salesmen,  Hutchinson  and  Mon- 
roe. The  oil  fields  had  proved  a  good  territory,  and 
it  was  too  large  for  her  to  handle  alone.  She 
would  turn  over  to  Hutchinson  and  Monroe  any 
leads  she  had  not  followed  up.  Doubtless  she  could 
make  arrangements  with  them  as  to  commissions; 
the  firm  hoped  she  would  continue  to  work  in  the 
fields;  Hutchinson  and  Monroe  would  expect  an 
overage  on  her  sales.  Mr.  Clark  trusted  they  would 
work  in  harmony,  and  congratulated  her  on  her 
success. 

Her  first  astonishment  changed  quickly  to  a  cold 
rage.     Did  they  think  they  could  take  her  territory 


242  DIVERGING  ROADS 

from  her?  Her  territory,  that  she  had  developed 
herself,  alone?  After  her  days  and  weeks  of  hard, 
exhausting  work,  after  her  hours  of  talking,  of  dis- 
tributing advertising,  of  making  sales  that  would 
lead  to  more  sales,  they  were  coming  in  and  taking 
the  fruits  of  it  away  from  her?  Oh,  she  would 
fight! 

The  clerk  told  her  that  Hutchinson  and  Monroe 
had  arrived  that  afternoon.  She  asked  him  to  tell 
them  that  she  would  see  them  in  the  parlor  at  nine 
o'clock.  There  would  be  some  slight  advantage 
in  making  them  come  to  her. 

She  was  sitting  in  the  small,  stuffy  room,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  a  newspaper,  when  they  came  in.  She  felt 
hard,  like  a  machine  of  steel,  when  she  rose  smiling 
to  meet  them. 

Hutchinson  was  a  tall,  angular  man,  who  moved 
in  an  easy-going  way  as  if  his  body  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  loose-fitting,  gray  clothes  he  wore. 
His  eyes  were  frank,  with  a  humorous  expression 
in  them,  but  though  his  face  was  lean  there  were 
deep  lines  from  his  nostrils  to  the  corners  of  his 
mouth,  and  when  he  smiled,  which  he  did  easily,  two 
more  deep  lines  appeared  in  his  cheeks. 

Monroe  was  older,  shorter,  and  stout.  There  was 
a  smooth  suavity  in  the  effect  of  his  neat,  dapper 
person,  his  heavy  gold  watch-chain,  his  eye-glasses. 
He  removed  the  glasses  at  intervals,  as  if  from 
habit,  wiping  them  with  a  silk  handkerchief,  and  at 


DIVERGING  ROADS  243 

such  moments  his  blandly  paternal  manner  was  ac- 
centuated. His  eyes  were  set  too  close  to  the  thin 
bridge  of  a  nose  that  grew  heavy  at  the  tip,  but  his 
gray  hair,  the  kindly  patronage  of  his  smile,  and  his 
soft,  heavy  voice  were  impressive. 

Helen  perceived  that  both  of  these  men  were  good 
salesmen,  and  that  their  working  together  made  a 
happy  combination  of  opposite  abilities.  She  saw 
herself  opposing  them,  an  inexperienced  girl,  and 
felt  that  the  odds  were  overwhelmingly  against  her. 
But  her  determination  to  fight  was  not  lessened. 

Upright  on  a  hard  red  davenport,  she  argued. 
The  territory  was  hers.  She  had  come  into  it  first. 
She  had  developed  it.  She  conceded  their  right  to 
work  there,  but  not  the  justice  of  their  demanding 
part  of  the  commissions  she  earned.  The  stale  little 
room,  filled  with  smells  of  heat-blistered  varnish  and 
dusty  plush,  became  a  battle-ground,  and  the  high 
back  of  the  davenport  was  a  wall  against  which  she 
stood  at  bay,  confronting  these  men  who  had  come 
to  rob  her. 

But  she  was  a  woman.  They  did  not  let  her  for- 
get it.  They  asked  her  permission  to  smoke,  but  not 
her  consent  to  their  business  arrangements.  They 
smiled  at  her  arguments.  After  all,  she  was  of  the 
sex  that  must  be  humored.  "  My  dear  Mrs.  Ken- 
nedy," said  Monroe,  gallantly.  "  Do  let  us  be  — 
ah  —  reasonable."  Their  courtesy  was  perfect. 
They  would  let  her  talk,  since  it  pleased  her  to  do 


244  DIVERGING  ROADS 

so.  They  would  pick  up  her  handkerchief  when  it 
slid  from  her  lap.  If  it  was  her  whim  to  work  in 
the  oil  fields  they  would  even  indulge  her  in  it.  But 
she  struck  rock  when  she  spoke  of  commissions. 
They  would  take  two  and  a  half  per  cent,  from  any 
sales  she  made. 

It  bored  Hutchinson  to  point  out  the  situation  to 
her,  but  he  did  it,  courteously.  The  firm  had  given 
them  the  territory.  They  were  experienced  sales- 
men. Naturally,  Clark  would  not  leave  the  territory 
in  the  hands  of  a  young  saleswoman,  however 
charming  personally.  This  was  business,  he  gently 
explained.  They  would  take  two  and  a  half  per 
cent. 

But  she  was  a  woman,  and  a  charming  one. 
Their  tone  implied  that  some  slight  sentimentality 
existed  even  in  business.  On  sales  they  made  from 
the  leads  she  gave  them,  they  would  be  generous. 
They  would  give  her  two  and  a  half  per  cent,  on 
those. 

At  this  there  was  an  interval  when  she  sat  smiling, 
speechless  with  rage.  But  she  saw  that  the  situation 
was  hopeless.  And  every  one  of  those  names  on 
her  lists  was  a  potential  sale  that  would  have  paid 
her  twelve  and  a  half  per  cent.  Anger  surged  up  in 
her,  almost  beyond  her  control.  However,  there 
was  no  value  in  fighting  when  she  was  beaten. 

They  parted  on  the  best  of  terms;  she  yielded 
every  point;  she  would  give  them  the  leads  in  the 


DIVERGING  ROADS  245 

morning.  She  left  them  satisfied,  thinking  that 
women,  while  annoying,  were  not  hard  to  handle. 

In  her  room  she  stood  shaken  by  her  anger,  by 
resentment  and  disgust.  "  Oh,  beastly,  beastly !  " 
she  said  through  clenched  teeth.  Striking  her  hand 
furiously  against  the  edge  of  the  dresser,  she  felt  a 
physical  pain  that  was  a  relief.  She  was  able  even 
to  smile,  ironically  and  wearily.  This  was  the  game 
she  had  to  play,  was  it  ?     Well  —  she  had  to  play  it. 

She  sat  down  and  from  her  note-book  copied  a 
list  of  names  and  addresses.  She  chose  only  those 
of  men  to  whom  she  had  talked  until  convinced  they 
were  not  land-buyers.  In  the  morning  she  met 
Hutchinson  in  the  lobby  and  gave  him  the  list.  She 
also  insisted  on  a  written  agreement  promising  her 
two  and  a  half  per  cent,  commission  on  sales  made 
to  any  of  those  men.  Hutchinson  gave  it  to  her  in 
patronizing  good-humor. 

Her  buggy  was  waiting  as  usual  in  the  shade  of 
the  hotel  building.  She  felt  grim  satisfaction  while 
she  climbed  into  it  and  drove  away  toward  the 
Limited  lease.  Hutchinson  and  Monroe  would  work 
industriously  for  some  time  before  they  perceived 
her  duplicity,  and  she  did  not  care  for  their  opinion 
when  they  did  discover  it.  Her  own  conscience  was 
harder  to  handle,  but  she  reflected  that  she  would 
have  to  revise  her  standards  of  honesty.  "  My  dear 
Mrs.  Kennedy  —  ah  —  really  —  this  is  business." 
She  hoped  viciously  that  Monroe  would  see  that  she 


246  DIVERGING  ROADS 

had  quite  understood  his  words.  She  made  another 
good  sale  before  they  stopped  working  on  the  worth- 
less leads.  Their  attitude  toward  her  changed 
abruptly. 

"  You  certainly  put  one  over  on  us,"  Hutchinson 
said  without  malice,  and  from  that  time  they  re- 
garded her  more  as  an  equal  than  as  a  woman. 

She  was  surprised  to  discover  the  bitterness  de- 
veloping in  her. 

Often  in  the  evenings  she  walked  in  the  quiet 
streets  of  little  houses.  Women  were  watering  the 
lawns.  A  cool,  SA^eet  odor  rose  from  refreshened 
grass  and  clumps  of  dripping  flowers.  Here  and 
there  a  man  leaned  on  the  handle  of  a  lawnmower, 
pipe  in  hand,  talking  to  a  neighbor.  Children  were 
playing  in  the  twilight.  Their  young  voices  rose  in 
happy  shouts,  and  their  feet  pattered  on  the  pave- 
ment. Hardness  and  bitterness  vanished  then,  and 
Helen  felt  only  an  ache  of  wistfulness. 

Later,  lights  bloomed  through  the  deepening 
night,  and  the  houses  became  dark  masses  framing 
squares  of  brightness.  Vaguely  beyond  lace  cur- 
tains Helen  saw  a  woman  swaying  in  a  rocking- 
chair,  a  group  of  girls  gathered  at  a  piano.  From 
dim  porches  mothers  called  the  children  to  bed,  and 
at  an  up-stairs  window  a  shade  came  down  like  an 
eyelid.  Helen  felt  alone  and  very  lonely.  She  real- 
ized that  she  had  been  walking  for  a  long  time  on 


DIVERGING  ROADS  247 

tired  feet.  But  she  did  not  want  to  go  back  to  the 
hotel.  She  must  remind  herself  that  to-morrow 
would  be  another  hard  day. 

In  the  hotel  lobby  she  encountered  Hutchinson  or 
Monroe.  Sharpness  and  hardness  came  back  then. 
Monroe  was  able  to  handle  the  smart  young  tool- 
dressers;  his  bland  paternal  manner  crushed  them 
into  a  paralyzing  sense  of  their  youth  and  crudeness. 
He  had  got  hold  of  a  tool-dresser  she  had  canvassed 
and  hoped  to  sell.  That  meant  a  fight  about  the 
commissions,  in  which,  of  course,  Hutchinson 
backed  Monroe.  She  was  still  alone,  but  now  she 
was  among  enemies. 

"  You  \e  got  to  fight!  "  she  told  herself.  '*  Are 
you  going  to  let  them  put  it  over  on  you  because 
you're  a  woman?"  She  lay  awake  thinking  of 
selling  arguments,  talking  points,  ways  of  handling 
this  prospect  and  that.  Every  sale  brought  her 
nearer  to  freedom.  Some  day  she  would  have  a 
house,  with  a  big  gray  living-room,  rose  curtains, 
dozens  of  fine  embroidered  towels  and  tablecloths. 
She  jerked  her  thoughts  back  to  her  work,  angry  at 
herself  for  letting  them  stray.  But  when,  triumph- 
antly, she  closed  the  biggest  sale  yet, —  sixty  acres ! 
—  she  celebrated  by  buying  a  linen  lunch  cloth 
stamped  in  a  pattern  of  wild  roses.  She  sat  in  her 
room  in  the  evenings  and  embroidered  it  beautifully 
with  fine  even  stitches. 

When  it  was  finished  and  laundered,  she  folded  it 


248  DIVERGING  ROADS 

in  tissue-paper  and  put  it  carefully  away  in  one  of 
the  cheap,  warped  drawers  of  her  bureau.  Often 
she  took  it  out,  spreading  the  shining  folds  over  the 
foot  of  her  bed  and  looking  at  it  with  joy.  It  lay 
in  her  thoughts  like  a  nucleus  of  a  future  content- 
ment. But  when  her  sister  Mabel  wrote  from 
Masonville  that  she  was  going  to  marry  the  most 
wonderful  man  in  the  world,  Bob  Mason,  "  Old 
Man  "  Mason's  grandson,  who  was  head  clerk  of 
Robertson's  store,  the  rose  lunch  cloth  became  some- 
thing Helen  could  not  keep.  It  was  too  keenly  a 
symbol  of  all  that  she  had  missed,  all  that  she  wanted 
her  little  sister  to  have. 

It  went  to  Mabel  in  a  rose-lined  white  box,  with  a 
letter  and  a  check.  Mabel's  letter,  palpitating  with 
happiness  and  awkwardly  triumphant  over  the 
splendid  match, —  "  though  of  course  it  makes  no 
difference,  because  I  would  marry  him  if  he  was  the 
poorest  man  on  earth,  because  money  is  n't  every- 
thing, is  it?" — had  suggested  that  Helen  come 
home  for  the  wedding.  But  this  would  mean 
facing  curiosity  and  sympathy  and  whispered  dis- 
cussion of  her  own  tragedy,  un forgotten,  she  knew, 
in  Masonville.  She  replied  that  she  could  not  get 
away  from  her  work,  and  read  Mabel's  relief  in  the 
light  regrets  sprinkled  through  her  radiant  thanks 
for  the  check.  "  And  the  tablecloth  is  beautiful,  too, 
one  of  the  loveliest  ones  I  have." 


DIVERGING  ROADS  249 

"  After  all,  it  is  good  to  think  that  it  matters  so 
little  to  her,"  Helen  thought  quickly.  But  the  letters 
had  shown  her  the  deep  gulf  time  had  dug  between 
her  and  her  girlhood,  and  the  realization  increased 
her  loneliness.  Her  life  went  by.  Business  filled 
it,  and  it  was  empty. 

One  day  late  in  the  fall  she  came  in  early  from 
the  oil  fields.  Over  the  level  yellow  plains  a  sense 
of  autumn  had  come,  an  indefinable  change  in  the 
air.  She  felt  another  change,  too,  a  vague  fore- 
boding, something  altered  and  restless  in  the  spirit 
of  the  men  with  whom  she  had  talked.  For  a  week 
she  had  not  found  a  new  prospect,  and  two  sales  had 
slipped  through  her  fingers.  She  stopped  at  the 
hotel  to  get  a  newspaper  and  read  the  financial  news. 
Then  she  walked  down  Main  Street  to  the  little 
office  Hutchinson  and  Monroe  had  rented. 

Hutchinson  was  there,  leaning  back  in  a  chair, 
his  feet  crossed  on  the  desk.  He  did  not  move  when 
she  came  in,  save  to  lift  his  eyes  from  the  sporting 
page  and  knock  the  ashes  from  his  cigar.  He  ac- 
cepted her  now  as  an  equal  in  his  own  game,  and 
there  was  respect  in  his  voice.  "  Well,  how  's  it 
coming?  " 

"  I  'm  going  to  get  out  of  the  fields,"  she  said. 
She  pushed  back  her  hat  with  a  tired  gesture  and 
dropped  into  a  chair. 

"  The  hell  you  say!    What 's  wrong?  "     Hutch- 


250  DIVERGING  ROADS 

inson  set  up,  dropping  the  paper,  and  leaned  forward 
on  the  desk.  His  interest  was  almost  alarmed. 
She  was  making  him  money. 

"  Territory  's  gone  bum.  K.  T.  O.  25  will  close 
down  in  another  two  weeks.  The  Limited  's  going 
to  stop  drilling.     I  'm  going  somewhere  else.'* 

"What!     Who  told  you?" 

"  Nobody.     I  just  doped  it  out." 

He  was  relieA^ed.  He  cajoled  her.  She  was 
tired,  he  said.  She  was  working  in  a  streak  of  bad 
luck.  Every  salesman  struck  it  sometime.  Look  at 
him ;  he  had  n't  made  a  sale  in  four  weeks,  and  he 
had  n't  lost  his  nerve.     Cheer  up ! 

She  had  been  considering  a  plan,  and  she  had 
chosen  the  moment  to  present  it  to  him.  The 
obliqueness  of  real-estate  methods  had  astounded 
her.  She  had  always  supposed  that  men  thought 
and  acted  in  straight  lines,  logical  lines.  That,  she 
had  thought,  gave  them  their  superiority  over  ir- 
rational womankind.  But  the  waste  and  blindness 
of  business  as  she  had  seen  it  had  altered  her  opinion 
of  them.  Her  plan  was  logical,  but  she  did  not 
count  upon  its  logic  to  impress  Hutchinson.  She 
reckoned  on  the  emotional  effect  that  would  be  pro- 
duced by  the  truth  of  her  prophecy.  Letting  that 
prophecy  stand,  she  began  to  unfold  her  plan. 

The  big  point  in  making  a  land  sale  was  getting 
hold  of  a  good  prospect.  That  should  not  be  done 
by  personal  canvassing.     It  was  too  wasteful  of  time 


DIVERGING  ROADS  251 

and  energy.  It  should  be  done  by  advertising. 
Now  Clark  &  Hayward's  advertising  was  all 
"  Whoop  *er  up !  Come  on !  "  stuff.  It  made  a  bid 
for  suckers.     Hutchinson  smiled,  but  she  went  on. 

Men  who  would  fall  for  that  advertising  were  not 
of  the  class  that  had  bank  accounts.  Hutchinson 
had  lost  a  lot  of  money  trying  to  sell  the  type  of  men 
who  answered  those  advertisements.  She  men- 
tioned incidents,  and  Hutchinson's  smile  faded. 

She  proposed  a  new  kind  of  real-estate  advertis- 
ing; small  type,  reading  matter,  sensible,  straight- 
forward arguments.  She  was  going  into  a  settled 
farming  community,  where  land  values  were  high, 
and  she  was  going  to  try  out  an  advertising  cam- 
paign for  farmers.  It  had  been  a  good  farming 
year ;  farmers  had  money,  and  they  had  brains.  She 
was  going  to  offer  them  cheap  land,  and  she  was 
going  to  sell  them. 

She  had  the  money  to  pay  for  the  advertising,  but 
she  needed  some  one  to  work  with  her.  She  pro- 
posed that  Hutchinson  come  in  with  her  on  a  fifty- 
fifty  basis.  He  could  have  his  name  on  the  door ;  he 
could  make  arrangements  with  the  firm  for  the  ter- 
ritory. They  would  hestitate  to  give  it  to  her.  But 
he  knew  she  could  sell  land.  Together  they  could 
make  money. 

Hutchinson  did  not  take  the  proposition  very 
seriously.  She  had  not  expected  that  he  would. 
He  thought  about  it,  and  grinned. 


252  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  I  'd  have  to  be  mighty  careful  my  wife  did  n*t 
get  wise !  "  he  remarked. 

"  Cut  that  out!  "  she  said  in  a  voice  that  slashed. 
She  unloosened  her  fury  at  him,  at  all  men,  and 
looked  at  him  with  blazing  eyes.  He  stammered  — 
he  did  n't  mean  —  '*  When  I  talk  business  to  you, 
don't  forget  that  it 's  business,"  she  said.  She 
picked  up  her  wallet  of  maps  and  left  the  office.  As 
she  did  so  she  reflected  that  the  scheme  would  work 
out. 

Ten  days  later  word  ran  through  the  oil  fields  that 
all  the  K.  T.  O.  leases  were  letting  out  men. 
Hutchinson's  inquiries  showed  that  the  Limited  was 
not  starting  any  new  wells.  Monroe,  who  had  saved 
his  money,  announced  that  he  would  stop  work  for 
the  winter.  Hutchinson,  remembering  that  Mrs. 
Kennedy  had  funds  for  an  advertising  campaign,  de- 
cided that  her  proposition  offered  a  shelter  in  time 
of  storm. 

They  talked  it  over  again,  considering  the  details, 
and  Hutchinson  went  to  the  city  to  see  Clark.  He 
got  a  small  advance  on  commission,  and  the  Santa 
Clara  Valley  territory. 

On  the  train,  leaving  the  oil  fields  for  the  last  time, 
Helen  looked  back  at  the  little  station,  the  sand  hills 
covered  with  black  derricks,  the  wide,  level  desert, 
and  felt  that  she  was  leaving  behind  her  the  chrysalis 
of  the  woman  she  had  become. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ON  a  hot  July  afternoon  three  years  later  she 
drove  a  dusty  car  through  the  traffic  on  Santa 
Clara  Street  in  San  Jose,  and  stopped  it  at  the  curb. 
When  she  had  jumped  to  the  sidewalk  she  walked 
around  the  car  and  thoughtfully  kicked  a  ragged  tire 
with  a  stubby  boot.  The  tire  had  gone  flat  on  the 
Cupertino  road,  and  it  was  on  her  mind  that  she  had 
put  too  much  air  into  the  patched  tube.  For  two 
miles  she  had  been  expecting  to  hear  the  explosion 
of  another  blow-out,  and  had  been  too  weary  to  stop 
the  car  and  unscrew  the  air  valve. 

"  Darn  thing  's  rim-cut,  anyway,''  she  said  under 
her  breath,  *'  I  '11  have  to  get  a  new  one."  She 
dug  her  note-book  and  wallet  from  the  mass  of  dusty 
literature  in  the  tonneau  and  walked  into  the  build- 
ing. 

Hutchinson  was  telephoning  when  she  entered 
their  office  on  the  fourth  floor.  A  curl  of  smoke 
rose  from  his  cigar-end  on  the  flat-topped  desk  and 
drifted  through  the  big  open  window.  There  were 
dusty  footprints  on  the  ingrain  rug,  and  the  helter- 
skelter  position  of  the  chairs  showed  that  prospects 
had  come  in  during  her  absence.  Hutchinson 
chuckled  when  he  hung  up  the  receiver. 

253 


254  DIVERGING  ROADS 

'*  Ted  's  going  to  catch  it  when  he  gets  home! " 
he  remarked,  picking  up  the  cigar. 

"  StalHng  his  wife  again?  "  Helen  was  running 
through  her  mail.  "  I  suppose  there  is  n't  a  man  on 
earth  who  won't  joyfully  He  to  another  man's  wife 
for  him,"  she  added,  ripping  an  envelope. 

"  Well,  Holy  Mike !     What  would  you  tell  her  ?  " 

Helen  looked  up  quickly  from  the  letter. 

"  I  'd  tell  her  the  — "  she  began  hotly,  and  stopped. 
"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  he  's  got  that  red- 
headed girl  out  in  the  machine  again?  He  makes 
me  tired.  If  you  ask  me,  I  think  we  'd  better  get  rid 
of  him.  That  sort  of  thing  does  n't  make  us  any 
sales." 

There  was  silence  while  she  ripped  open  the  other 
letters  and  glanced  through  them.  Her  momentary 
anger  subsided.  She  reflected  that  there  were  men 
on  whom  one  could  rely.  Her  thoughts  returned  to 
Paul  as  to  a  point  of  security.  His  appearance  in 
San  Jose  a  few  months  earlier  had  been  like  the  sight 
of  a  cool  spring  in  a  desert.  She  had  not  realized 
the  scorn  for  all  men  that  had  grown  in  her  until  she 
met  him  again  and  could  not  feel  it  for  him. 

She  glanced  from  the  window  at  the  clock  in  the 
tower  of  the  Bank  of  San  Jose  building.  Half-past 
four.  He  would  still  be  at  the  ice-plant.  This 
thought,  popping  unexpectedly  into  her  mind, 
startled  her  with  the  realization  that  all  day  she  had 
been  subconsciously  dwelling  on  the  fact  that  it  was 


DIVERGING  ROADS  255 

the  day  on  which  he  usually  came  to  San  Jose  since 
his  firm  had  acquired  its  interests  there. 

The  clock  suggested  simultaneously  another 
thought,  and  she  snatched  the  telephone-receiver 
from  its  hook.  "  Am  I  too  late  for  the  afternoon 
delivery  ?  "  she  anxiously  asked  the  groceryman  who 
answered  the  call.  "  Oh,  thank  you.  Two  heads 
of  lettuce,  a  dozen  eggs,  half  a  pound  of  butter. 
How  much  are  tomatoes  ?  Well,  send  me  a  pound. 
Yes,  H.  D.  Kennedy,  560  South  Green  Street. 
Thank  you !  '*  As  the  receiver  clicked  into  place, 
she  asked,  "  Any  live  ones  to-day?" 

"  Six  callers.  Two  good  prospects  and  a  couple 
that  may  work  up  into  something,"  Hutchinson  an- 
swered. **  Say,  the  Seals  are  certainly  handing  it 
to  the  Tigers !     Won  in  the  fifth  inning." 

**  That 's  good,"  she  said  absently.  "  Closed  the 
Haas  sale  yet  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  's  all  right.  Tied  up  solid."  Hutchin- 
son yawned.     "  How  's  your  man?  " 

"  Dated  him  for  the  land  next  Wednesday.  He  *s 
live,  but  hard  to  handle.  Taking  him  down  in  the 
machine." 

"Machine  all  right?" 

"  Engine  needs  overhauling,  and  we  Ve  got  to 
get  a  new  i»ear  tire  and  some  tubes.  Two  blow- 
outs to-day.  Time  's  too  valuable  to  spend  it  jack- 
ing up  cars  in  this  heat.  I  'm  all  in.  But  I  can 
nurse  the  engine  along  till  I  get  back  from  this  trip." 


2^6  DIVERGING  ROADS 

She  felt  that  each  sentence  was  a  load  she  must  lift 
with  her  voice.  *'  I  'm  all  in,"  she  repeated. 
"  Guess  1 11  call  it  a  day." 

However,  she  still  sat  relaxed  in  her  chair,  looking 
out  at  the  quaint  old  red-brick  buildings  across  the 
street.  San  Jose,  she  thought  whimsically,  was  like 
a  sturdy  old  geranium  plant,  woody-stemmed,  whose 
roots  were  thick  in  every  foot  of  the  Santa  Clara 
Valley.  She  felt  an  affection  for  the  town,  for  the 
miles  of  orchard  around  it,  interlaced  with  trolley- 
lines,  for  the  thousands  of  bungalows  on  ranches  no 
larger  than  gardens.  Some  day  she  would  like  to 
handle  a  sub-division  of  acre  tracts,  she  thought,  and 
build  a  hundred  bungalows  herself. 

She  brought  her  thoughts  back  to  the  Haas  sale, 
and  spoke  of  it  tentatively.  It  was  all  right, 
Hutchinson  assured  her  with  some  annoyance.  The 
old  man  was  tied  up  solid.  He  'd  sign  the  final  con- 
tract as  soon  as  he  got  his  money,  and  he  had  written 
for  it.     What  did  Helen  want  to  crab  about  it  for  ? 

"  I  don't  mean  to  be  a  crab,"  she  smiled.  "  But  — 
do  you  know  the  definition  of  a  pessimist?  He  's  a 
man  who  's  lived  too  long  with  an  optimist." 

Hutchinson  covered  his  bewilderment  with  a 
laugh. 

"  You  know,  I  Ve  often  thought  I  'd  look  up  that 
word.  I  see  it  every  once  in  a  while.  Pessimist. 
But  what's  the  use?  You  don't  need  words  like 
that  to  sell  land." 


DIVERGING  ROADS  J57 

She  had  been  stupid  again,  aiming  over  his  head. 
He  was  right.  You  did  n't  need  words  like  that  to 
sell  land.  You  did  n't  need  any  of  the  things  she 
liked,  to  sell  land.  She  was  a  fool.  She  was  tired. 
But  she  returned  to  the  Haas  sale.  The  subject 
must  be  handled  carefully,  for  Hutchinson  was  too 
good  a  salesman  to  offend,  though  he  was  lazy. 
Where  was  Haas's  money?  Hutchinson  replied 
that  it  was  banked  in  the  old  country,  Germany. 

''Germany!  And  he's  written  for  it?  For  the 
love  of  — !  You  grab  the  machine  and  chase  out 
there  and  make  him  cable.  Pay  for  the  cable. 
Send  it  yourself.  Tell  'em  to  cable  the  money. 
Have  n't  you  seen  the  papers?  " 

Hutchinson,  surrounded  by  scattered  sporting 
sheets,  stared  up  at  her  in  amazement. 

"  Don't  you  know  Austria  sent  an  ultimatum  to 
Servia?  Haven't  you  ever  heard  of  the  Balkan 
Wars?  Don't  you  know  if  Russia  —  Good  Lord, 
man !  And  you  're  letting  that  money  lie  in  Ger- 
many waiting  for  a  letter?  Beat  it  out  there. 
Make  him  cable.  I  '11  pay  for  it  myself.  Good 
Lord,  Hutchinson  —  a  fifty  acre  sale!  Don't  stop 
to  talk.  The  cable-office  closes  at  six.  Hurry! 
And  look  out  for  that  rear  left  tire !  "  she  opened  the 
door  to  call  after  him. 

The  brief  flurry  of  excitement  had  raised  in  her  an 
exhilaration  that  vanished  in  a  sense  of  futility  and 
shame.     "  I  'm  getting  so  I  swear  like  —  like  a  land- 


258  DIVERGING  ROADS 

salesman!  "  she  said  to  herself,  straightening  her  hat 
before  the  mirror.  There  was  a  streak  of  dust  on 
her  nose,  and  she  wiped  it  off  with  a  towel,  and 
tucked  up  straggling  locks  of  hair.  In  the  dark 
strand  over  one  temple  a  few  white  lines  shone  like 
silver.  "  I  'm  wearing  out,"  she  said,  looking  at 
them  and  at  her  skin,  tanned  to  a  smooth  brown. 
Nobody  cared.  Why  should  she  carefully  save  her- 
self ?  She  shut  the  closet  door  on  her  mirrored  re- 
flection, locked  the  office  door,  and  went  home. 

The  small,  brown  bungalow  looked  at  her  with 
empty  eyes.  The  locked  front  door  and  the  dry 
leaves  scattered  from  the  rose-vines  over  the  porch 
gave  the  place  a  deserted  appearance.  At  all  the 
other  houses  on  the  street  the  doors  were  open; 
children  played  on  the  lawns,  wicker  tables  and 
rocking-chairs  and  carelessly  dropped  magazines 
made  the  porches  homelike.  There  was  pity  in  her 
rush  of  affection  for  the  little  house ;  she  felt  toward 
it  as  she  might  have  felt  toward  an  animal  she  loved, 
waiting  in  loneliness  for  her  coming  to  make  it 
happy. 

The  door  opened  wide  into  the  small  square  hall, 
and  in  the  stirred  air  a  few  rose  petals  drifted  down- 
ward from  the  bowl  of  roses  on  the  walnut  table. 
She  unlatched  and  swung  back  the  casement  win- 
dows in  the  living-room.  Then  she  dropped  her  hat 
and  purse  among  the  cushions  on  the  window-seat, 
and  straightening  her  body  to  its  full  height,  relaxed 


DIVERGING  ROADS  259 

again  in  a  long,  contented  sigh.  A  weight  shpped 
from  her  spirit.     She  was  at  home. 

Her  lingering  glance  caressed  the  rose-colored 
curtains  rustling  softly  in  the  faint  breeze,  the  flat 
cream  walls,  the  brown  rugs,  the  brick  hearth  on 
which  piled  sticks  waited  for  a  match.  There  was 
her  wicker  sewing-basket,  and  beyond  it  the  crowded 
book  shelves.  Here  was  the  quaint,  walnut  desk  she 
had  found  at  a  second-hand  store,  and  the  big,  man- 
ish  chair  with  the  brown  leather  cushions.  It  was 
all  hers,  her  very  own.  She  had  made  it.  She  was 
at  home,  and  free.  The  silence  around  her  was  like 
cool  water  on  a  hot  face. 

In  the  white-tiled  bathroom,  with  its  yellow  cur- 
tains, yellow  bath  rug,  yellow-bordered  fluffy  bath- 
towels,  she  washed  the  last  memory  of  the  office 
from  her.  She  reveled  in  the  daintiness  of  sheer, 
hand-embroidered  underwear,  in  the  crispness  of  the 
white  dress  she  slipped  over  her  head.  She  put  on 
her  feet  the  most  frivolous  of  slippers,  with  beaded 
toes  and  high  heels. 

**  You  're  a  sybarite,  that 's  what  you  are ! 
You  're  a  beastly  sensualist !  "  she  laughed  at  herself 
in  the  mirror.  "  And  you  're  leading  a  double  life. 
'  Out,  damned  spot ! '  "  she  added,  to  the  brown 
triangle  of  tan  on  her  neck. 

For  an  hour  she  was  happy.  Aproned  in  blue 
gingham  she  watered  the  lawn  and  hosed  the  last 
swirling  leaf  from  the  front  porch.     She  said  a  word 


26o  DIVERGING  ROADS 

or  two  about  roses  to  the  woman  next  door.  They 
were  not  very  friendly ;  all  the  women  on  that  street 
looked  at  her  across  the  gulf  of  uncomprehension 
between  quiet,  homekeeping  women  and  the  vague 
world  of  business.  They  did  not  quite  know  how  to 
take  her ;  they  thought  her  odd.  She  felt  that  their 
lives  were  cozy  and  safe,  but  very  small. 

Then  she  went  into  the  kitchen.  She  made  a 
salad,  broke  the  eggs  for  an  omelet,  debated  with 
finger  at  her  lip  whether  to  make  popovers.  They 
were  fun  to  make,  because  of  the  uncertainty  about 
their  popping,  but  somehow  they  were  difficult  to  eat 
while  one  read.  One  could  manage  bread-and-butter 
sandwiches  without  lifting  eyes  from  the  page. 
Odd,  that  she  should  be  lonely  only  while  she  ate. 
The  moment  she  laid  down  her  book  at  the  table 
the  silence  of  the  house  closed  around  her  coldly. 

She  would  not  have  said  that  she  was  waiting  for 
anything,  but  an  obscure  suspense  prolonged  her 
hesitation  over  the  trivial  question.  When  the 
telephone-bell  pealed  startlingly  through  the  still- 
ness it  was  like  an  awaited  summons,  and  she  ran  to 
answer  it  without  doubting  whose  voice  she  would 
hear. 

As  always,  there  was  some  excuse  for  Paul's  tele- 
phoning,—  a  message  from  his  mother,  a  bit  of  news 
from  Ripley  Farmland  Acres, —  some  negligible 
matter  which  she  heard  without  listening,  knowing 
that  to  both  of  them  it  was  unimportant.     The  nickel 


DIVERGING  ROADS  261 

mouthpiece  reflected  an  amused  dimple  in  her  cheek, 
and  there  was  a  Hit  in  her  voice  when  she  thanked 
him.  She  asked  him  to  come  to  supper.  His  hesi- 
tation was  a  struggle  with  longing.  She  insisted, 
and  when  she  hung  up  the  receiver  the  house  had 
suddenly  become  warmed  and  glowing. 

She  felt  a  new  zest  while  she  took  her  prettiest 
lunch  cloth  from  its  lavender-scented  drawer  and 
brought  in  a  bunch  of  roses,  stopping  to  tuck  one  in 
her  belt.  She  felt,  too,  that  she  was  pushing  back 
into  the  depths  of  her  mind  many  thoughts  and 
emotions  that  struggled  to  emerge.  She  shut  her 
eyes  to  them,  and  resisted  blindly.  It  was  better  to 
see  only  the  placid  surface  of  the  moment.  She 
concentrated  her  attention  upon  the  popovers,  and 
the  egg-beater  was  humming  in  her  hands  when  she 
heard  his  step  on  the  porch. 

It  was  a  quick,  heavy  step,  masculine  and  deter- 
mined, but  always  there  was  something  boyishly 
eager  in  it. 

She  called  to  him  through  the  open  doors,  and 
when  he  came  in  she  gave  him  a  floury  hand,  pushing 
a  lock  of  hair  back  from  her  eyes  with  the  back  of  it 
before  she  went  on  beating  the  popovers.  He  stood 
awkwardly  about  while  she  poured  the  mixture  into 
the  hot  tins  and  quickly  slid  it  into  the  oven,  but  she 
knew  he  enjoyed  being  there. 

The  table  was  set  on  the  screened  side  porch. 
White  passion  flowers  fluttered  like  moths  among 


262  DIVERGING  ROADS 

the  green  leaves  that  curtained  it,  and  in  an  open 
space  a  great,  yellow  rose  tapped  gently  against  the 
screen.  The  twilight  was  filled  with  a  soft,  orange 
glow ;  above  the  gray  roofs  half  the  sky  was  yellow 
and  the  small  clouds  were  like  flakes  of  shining  gold. 

There  came  over  Helen  the  strange,  uncanny  sen- 
sation that  sometime,  somewhere,  she  had  lived 
through  this  moment  once  before.  She  ignored  it, 
smiling  across  the  white  cloth  at  Paul.  She  liked 
to  see  him  sitting  there,  his  square  shoulders  sturdy 
in  the  gray  business  suit,  his  lips  firm,  tight  at  the 
comers,  his  eyes  a  little  stern,  but  straight-forward 
and  honest.  He  gave  an  impression  of  solidity  and 
permanence;  one  would  always  know  where  to  find 
him. 

"You're  certainly  some  cook,  Helen!"  he  said. 
The  omelet  was  delicious,  and  the  popovers  a 
triumph.  She  ate  only  one,  that  he  might  have  the 
others,  and  his  enjoyment  of  them  gave  her  a  deep 
delight. 

Across  the  little  table  a  subtle  current  vibrated  be- 
tween them,  intoxicating  her,  making  her  a  little 
dizzy  with  emotions  she  would  not  analyze. 

"  I  certainly  am !  "  she  laughed.  "  The  cook- 
stove  lost  a  genius  when  I  became  a  real-estate  lady." 
She  was  not  blind  to  the  shadow  that  crossed  his 
face,  but  part  of  her  intoxication  was  a  perverseness 
that  did  not  mind  annoying  him  just  a  little  bit. 

"  I  hate  to  think  about  it/*  he  said.     His  gravity 


DIVERGING  ROADS  263 

shattered  the  iridescent  glamor,  making  her  grave, 
too,  and  the  prosaic  atmosphere  of  the  office  and  its 
problems  surrounded  her. 

'*  Well,  you  may  not  have  it  to  think  about  much 
longer.  What  do  you  think  ?  Is  there  going  to  be 
real  trouble  in  Europe  ?  '* 

"  How  do  you  mean?  " 

"War?" 

"  Oh,  I  doubt  it.  Not  in  this  day  and  age. 
We  've  got  beyond  that,  I  hope."  His  casual  dis- 
missal of  the  possibility  was  a  relief  to  her,  but  not 
quite  an  assurance. 

"  I  hope  so."  She  stirred  her  coffee,  thoughtfully 
watching  the  glimmer  of  the  spoon  in  the  golden- 
brown  depths.  "  I  '11  be  glad  when  it  blows  over. 
That  Balkan  situation —  If  Austria  stands  by  her 
ultimatum,  and  Servia  does  pull  Russia  into  it, 
there 's  Germany.  I  don't  know  much  about  world 
politics,  but  one  thing 's  certain.  If  there  is  war, 
the  bottom  '11  drop  out  of  my  business." 

He  was  startled. 

"  I  don't  know  what  it 's  got  to  do  with  us  over 
here." 

"It  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  you  or  your 
affairs.  But  farmers  are  the  most  cautious  class  on 
earth.  The  minute  there  is  a  real  storm  cloud  in 
Europe  every  one  of  'em  '11  draw  in  his  money  and 
sit  on  it.  The  land  game  's  entirely  a  matter  of 
psychology.     Let  the  papers  begin  yelling,  '  War ! ' 


264  DIVERGING  ROADS 

though  it  *s  eight  thousand  miles  away,  and  every 
prospect  I  have  will  figure  that  good  hard  cash  in 
hand  is  better  than  a  mortgage  with  him  on  the 
wrong  side  of  it.  That  means  thumbs  down  for  me. 
It 's  hard  enough  to  keep  up  the  office  expenses  and 
pay  garage  bills  as  it  is." 

Alarm  was  driven  from  his  face  by  a  chaos  of 
emotions.  He  flushed  darkly,  his  eyes  on  his  plate. 
"  You  ought  n't  to  have  to  be  worrying  about  such 
things." 

"  Oh,  I  won't  mind  if  it  does  happen,"  she  said 
quickly.  "  In  a  way,  I  'd  be  glad.  I  'd  be  out  of 
business  anyway ;  I  'd  find  something  else  to  do. 
Nobody  knows  how  I  hate  business  —  nothing  but 
an  exploiting  of  stupid  people  by  people  just  a  little 
less  stupid." 

She  caught  at  the  impersonality  of  the  subject, 
trying  to  control  the  intoxication  that  rose  in  her 
again,  fed  by  his  silence,  by  the  currents  it  set  vibrat- 
ing between  them  once  more.  She  threw  her  words 
into  it  as  if  their  hard-matter-of-factness  would 
break  a  growing  spell. 

"  Six-tenths  of  our  business  can  be  wiped  out 
without  doing  any  harm.  A  real-estate  salesman 
has  n't  any  real  reason  for  existing.  We  're  just  a 
barrier  between  the  land  and  the  people  who  want 
it.  We  are  n't  needed  a  bit.  The  people  would 
simply  take  the  land  if  they  were  n't  like  horses,  too 
stupid  to  know  their  own  strength,  letting  us  grow 


DIVERGING  ROADS  265 

fat  on  their  labor.  Hoffman,  owning  the  land  and 
making  a  hundred  per  cent,  on  its  sale ;  Clark  &  Hay- 
ward,  with  their  fifty  per  cent,  expenses  and  com- 
missions; me,  with  my  fifteen  per  cent.,  and  the 
salesman  under  me  —  we  're  just  a  lot  of  parasites 
living  off  the  land  without  giving  anything  in  re- 
turn. Oh,  don't  think  I  don't  know  how  useless 
these  last  three  years  — " 

She  knew  he  was  not  listening.  Nothing  she  was 
saying  set  his  cup  chattering  against  the  saucer  as  he 
put  it  down.  The  twilight  was  prolonged  by  the 
first  radiance  of  a  rising  moon,  and  in  the  strange, 
silver-gray  light  the  white  passion  flowers,  the  green 
spray  of  the  pepper-tree  on  the  lawn,  took  on  an  un- 
earthly quality,  like  beauty  in  a  dream.  Her  voice 
wavered  into  silence.  Through  a  haze  she  became 
aware  that  he  was  about  to  speak.  Her  own  words 
forestalled  him,  still  pleasantly  commonplace. 

"  It 's  getting  dark,  is  n't  it  ?  Let 's  go  in  and 
light  the  lamps." 

His  footsteps  followed  her  through  the  ghostly 
dimness  of  the  house.  The  floor  seemed  far  beneatH 
her  feet,  and  through  her  quivering  emotions  shot  a 
gleam  of  amusement.  She  was  feeling  like  a  girl  in 
her  teens !  Her  hand  sought  the  electric  light-switch 
as  it  might  have  clutched  at  a  life-line. 

**  Helen,  wait  a  minute !  "  She  started,  stopped, 
her  arm  outstretched  toward  the  wall.  "  I  Ve  got 
to  say  something." 


266  DIVERGING  ROADS 

The  tortured  determination  of  his  voice  told  her 
that  the  coming  moment  could  not  be  evaded.  A 
cool,  accustomed  steadiness  of  nerves  and  brain  rose 
to  meet  it.  She  crossed  the  room,  and  switched  on 
the  tiny  desk-lamp,  the  golden-shaded  light  of  which 
only  warmed  the  dusk.  But  her  opened  lips  made 
no  sound;  she  indicated  the  big,  leather  chair  only 
with  a  gesture,  settling  herself  on  the  cushioned  win- 
dow-seat. He  remained  standing,  his  hands  in  his 
coat-pockets,  his  gaze  on  the  fingers  interlaced  on  her 
knees. 

"  You  're  a  married  woman." 

A  shock  ran  through  her.  She  had  worn  those 
old  bonds  so  long  without  feeling  them  that  she  had 
forgotten  they  were  there.  Why  —  why,  she  was 
herself,  H.  D.  Kennedy,  salesman,  office-manager, 
householder. 

His  voice  went  on  stubbornly,  hoarse. 

"  I  have  n't  got  any  right  to  talk  this  way.  But, 
Helen,  what  are  you  going  to  do?  Don't  you  see 
I  've  got  to  know  ?  Don't  you  see  I  can't  go  on  ?  It 
isn't  fair."  He  faltered,  dragging  out  the  words 
as  though  by  muscular  effort.  "  It  is  n't  fair  to  — 
him.  Or  me  or  you.  Helen,  if  —  if  things  do  go 
to  pieces,  as  you  said  —  can't  you  see  I'll  —  just 
have  to  be  in  a  position  to  do  something  ?  " 

The  tremulous  intoxication  was  gone.  Her  com- 
posed self-possession  of  the  moment  before  seemed 
a  cheap,  smug  attitude.     She  saw  a  naked,  tortured 


DIVERGING  ROADS  267 

soul,  and  the  stillness  of  the  room  was  reflected  in 
the  stillness  within  her. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  "  she  said  at 
last. 

He  walked  to  the  cold  hearth  and  stood  looking 
down  at  the  piled  sticks.  His  voice,  coming  from 
the  shadows,  sounded  as  though  muffled  by  them. 
"  Tell  me  —  do  you  still  care  about  him  ?  " 

All  the  wasted  love  and  broken  hopes,  the  mud- 
dled, miserable  tangle  of  living,  swept  over  her, 
the  suffering  that  had  been  buried  by  many  days,  the 
memories  she  had  locked  away  and  smothered,  Bert, 
and  all  that  he  had  been  to  her.  And  now  she  could 
not  remember  his  face.  She  could  not  see  him 
clearly  in  her  mind ;  she  did  not  know  where  he  was. 
When  had  she  thought  of  him  last  ? 

"  No,'*  she  said. 

"Then  — can't  you?" 

"  Divorce,  you  mean  ?  '' 

Paul  came  back  to  her,  and  she  saw  that  he  was 
even  more  shaken  than  she.  He  spoke  thickly,  pain- 
fully. He  had  never  thought  that  he  would  do  such 
a  thing.  God  knew,  he  said  without  irreverence, 
that  he  did  not  believe  in  divorce.  Not  usually. 
But  in  this  case  —  He  had  never  thought  he  could 
love  another  man's  wife.  He  had  tried  not  to. 
But  she  was  so  alone.  And  he  had  loved  her  long 
ago.  She  had  not  forgotten  that  ?  It  had  n't  been 
easy  to  keep  on  all  these  years  without  her.     And 


26S  DIVERGING  ROADS 

then  when  she  had  been  treated  so,  and  he  could  n*t 
do  anything. 

But  it  was  n't  altogether  that.  Not  all  un- 
selfish. *'  I  —  I  've  wanted  you  so !  You  don't 
know  how  I  Ve  wanted  you.  Nobody  ever  seems  to 
think  that  a  man  wants  to  be  loved  and  have  some- 
body caring  just  about  him,  somebody  that 's  glad 
when  he  comes  home,  and  that  —  that  cares  when 
he  's  blue.  We  —  we  are  n't  supposed  to  feel  like 
that.  But  we  do.  I  do  —  terribly.  Not  just 
*  somebody.'  It 's  always  been  you  I  wanted. 
Nobody  else.  Oh,  there  were  girls.  I  even  tried 
to  think  that  maybe  —  but  somehow,  none  of  them 
were  you.     I  could  n't  help  coming  back." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear ! "  she  said,  with  tears 
on  her  cheeks. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  forgetting  the  past  and  the 
things  that  had  been  between  them,  they  could  come 
together  again  and  be  happy.  But  he  was  tortured 
by  a  dread  of  being  unfair  to  Bert.  If  she  did  still 
care  for  him,  if  he  had  any  rights. —  "  Of  course 
he  has  rights.  He  's  your  —  I  never  thought  that  I 
could  talk  like  this  to  a  woman  who  had  n't  any 
right  to  hsten  to  me." 

"Hush!  Of  course  I  have  a  right  to  listen  to 
you.  I  have  every  right  to  do  as  I  please  with  my- 
self." 

The  tragedy  that  shook  her  was  that  it  was  true, 
that  all  the  passion  and  beauty  of  her  old  love  for 


DIVERGING  ROADS  269 

Bert  was  dead,  lying  like  a  corpse  in  her  heart, 
never  to  be  awakened  and  never  utterly  forgotten. 
"  I  will  be  free,"  she  promised,  knowing  that  she 
never  would  be.  But  in  her  deepest  tenderness 
toward  Paul  she  could  shut  her  eyes  to  that. 

The  promise  made  him  happy.  Despite  his 
doubts,  his  restless  conscience  not  quite  silenced,  he 
was  happy,  and  his  happiness  was  reflected  in  her. 
Something  of  magic  revived,  making  the  moment 
glamorous.  She  need  not  think  of  the  future;  she 
need  made  no  promises  beyond  that  one.  "  I  will 
be  free."  A  year,  a  year  at  least.  Then  they  would 
plan. 

For  the  moment  her  tenderness  enfolded  him, 
who  loved  her  so  much,  so  much  that  she  could 
never  give  him  enough  to  repay  him.  It  came  to 
her  in  a  clear  flash  of  thought  through  one  of  tlieir 
silences  that  the  maternal  quality  in  a  woman's  love 
is  not  so  much  due  to  the  mothe**  in  the  woman  as 
to  the  child  in  the  man. 

"  You  dear !  "  she  said. 

He  had  to  go  at  last.  The  morning  train  for 
Ripley,  but  he  would  write  her  every  day.  "  And 
you  '11  see  —  about  it  —  right  away  ?  " 

"  Yes,  right  away.'*  The  leaves  of  the  rose- 
vines  over  the  porch  rustled  softly;  a  scented  petal 
floated  down  through  the  moonlight.  "  Good-by, 
dear." 

"  GoocJ-by."     He   hesitated,   holding  her  hand. 


270  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"Oh,  Helen, —  sweetheart — ■'*  Then,  quickly,  he 
went  without  kissing  her. 

She  entered  a  house  filled  with  a  silence  that 
turned  to  her  many  faces,  and  switching  out  the 
little  lamp  she  sat  a  long  time  in  the  darkness,  look- 
ing out  at  the  moonlit  lawn.  She  was  tired.  It 
was  good  to  be  alone  in  the  stillness,  not  to  think, 
but  to  feel  herself  slowly  growing  quiet  and  com- 
posed again  around  a  quietly  happy  heart. 

Something  of  the  glow  went  with  her  to  the 
office  next  morning,  stayed  with  her  all  day,  while 
she  'talked  sub-soils,  water-depths,  prices,  terms, 
while  she  answered  her  letters,  wrote  her  next 
week's  advertising,  corrected  proofs.  The  news 
in  the  papers  was  disquieting;  it  appeared  that  the 
cloud  over  Europe  was  growing  blacker.  How 
long  would  it  be  if  war  did  come  before  its  effects 
reached  her  territory,  slowly  cut  off  her  sales  ?  Ted 
Collin's  bill  for  gasoline  was  out  of  all  reason; 
there  was  a  heated  discussion  in  the  office,  telephone 
messages  to  Clark  in  San  Francisco.  Business  de- 
tails engulfed  her. 

On  Wednesday  she  took  her  difficult  prospect  to 
the  Sacramento  lands  in  the  machine.  He  was  hard 
to  handle ;  salesmen  for  other  tracts  had  clouded  the 
clear  issue.  She  fell  back  on  the  old  expedient  of 
showing  him  all  those  other  tracts  herself,  with  a 
fair-seeming  impartiality  that  damned  them  by  in- 
direction.    There  was  no  time  for  dreaming  during 


DIVERGING  ROADS  271 

those  hard  three  days;  toih'ng  over  dusty  fields 
with  a  soil-augur,  skilfully  countering  objections  be- 
fore they  took  form,  nursing  an  engine  that  coughed 
on  three  cylinders,  dragging  the  man  at  last  by  sheer 
force  of  will  power  to  the  point  of  signing  on  the 
dotted  line.  She  came  exhausted  into  the  Sacra- 
mento hotel  late  the  third  night,  with  no  thought 
in  her  mind  but  a  bath  and  bed. 

Stopping  at  the  telegraph  counter  to  wire  the 
firm  that  the  sale  was  closed,  she  heard  a  remem- 
bered voice  at  her  elbow,  and  turned. 

"  Mr.  Monroe !  You  *re  up  here  too !  How  's  it 
going  ?  *'     She  gave  him  a  dust-gtimed   hand. 

**  Well,  I  'm  not  complaining,  Mrs.  Kennedy  — 
not  complaining.  Just  closed  thirty-five  acres. 
And  how  are  you?     Fortune  smiling,  I  hope?  " 

"  Just  got  in  from  the  tract.  Sold  a  couple  of 
twenty-acre  pieces." 

"  Well,  well,  is  that  so  ?  Fine  work,  fine  work ! 
Keep  it  up.  It 's  a  pleasure  to  see  a  young  lady  do- 
ing so  well.  Well,  well,  and  so  you  Ve  been  out  on 
the  tract!  I  wonder  if  you've  seen  Gilbert  yet?'' 
His  shrewd  old  gossip-loving  eyes  were  upon  her. 
She  turned  to  her  message  on  the  counter,  and  after 
a  pause  of  gazing  blindly  at  it,  she  scrawled,  "  H.  D. 
Kennedy,"  clearly  below  it.  "  Send  cofiect,"  she 
said  to  the  girl,  and  over  her  shoulder,  **  Gilbert 
who  ?     Not  my  husband  ?  " 

Yes.     Monroe  had  run  across  him  in  San  Fran- 


272  DIVERGING  ROADS 

CISCO,  and  he  was  looking  well,  very  well  indeed. 
Had  asked  about  her ;  Monroe  had  told  him  she  was 
in  San  Jose.  "  But  if  you  were  on  the  tract,  no 
doubt  he  failed  to  find  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  I  Ve  been  lost  to  the  world 
for  three  days.  Showed  my  prospect  every  inch 
of  land  between  here  and  Patterson.  You  know 
how  it  is.  I  'm  all  in.  Well,  good-by.  Good 
luck."  As  she  crossed  the  lobby  to  the  elevator  she 
heard  her  heels  clicking  on  he  mosaic  floor,  and 
knew  she  was  walking  with  her  usual  quick,  firm 
step. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SLEEP  was  impossible.  Helen's  exhausted 
nerves  reacted  in  feverish  tenseness  to  the  shock 
of  this  unexpected  nev^s  of  Bert.  From  long  ex- 
perience she  knew  that  in  this  half -delirious  state 
she  could  not  trust  her  reasoning,  must  not  accept 
seriously  its  conclusions,  but  she  could  not  stop  her 
thoughts.  They  scurried  uncontrolled  through  her 
brain  as  if  driven  by  a  life  of  their  own.  She  could 
only  endure  them  until  her  over-taxed  body  crushed 
them  with  its  tired  weight.  To-morrow  she  would 
be  able  to  think. 

In  the  square  hotel  room,  under  the  garish  light 
that  emphasized  the  ugliness  of  red  carpet  and  var- 
nished mahogany  furniture,  she  moved  about  as 
usual,  opening  the  windows,  hanging  up  her  hat 
and  coat,  unfastening  her  bag.  She  did  not  forget 
the  customary  pleasant  word  to  the  bell-boy  who 
brought  ice  water,  and  he  saw  nothing  unusual  in 
her  white  face  and  bright  eyes.  This  hotel  saw  her 
only  on  her  return  trips  from  the  tract,  and  she  was 
always  exhausted  after  making  or  losing  a  sale. 
She  locked  the  door  behind  him,  and  began  to  un- 
dress. 

2^Z 


274  DIVERGING  ROADS 

Paul  must  not  be  involved.  She  must  manage  to 
shield  him.  A  sensation  of  nausea  swept  over  her. 
The  vulgarity,  the  cheap  coarseness  of  it!  But  she 
must  not  think.  She  was  too  tired.  Why  had 
she  blundered  into  such  a  situation?  What  change 
had  the  years  made  in  Bert  ?  Her  thoughts,  touch- 
ing him,  recoiled.  She  would  not  think  of  Paul. 
To  have  the  two  in  her  mind  'together  was  intoler- 
able, it  was  the  essence  of  her  humiliation.  Mar- 
ried to  one  man,  bound  to  him  by  a  thousand  memo- 
ries that  rushed  upon  her,  and  loving  another,  en- 
gaged to  him!  No  fine,  self-respecting  woman 
could  be  in  such  a  position.  But  she  was.  She 
must  face  that  fact.  No,  she  must  not  face  it. 
Not  until  she  was  rested,  in  command  of  herself. 

She  bathed,  scrubbing  her  skin  until  it  glowed 
painfully.  Cold-cream  was  not  enough  for  her 
face  and  hands.  She  rubbed  them  with  soap,  with 
harsh  towels.  At  midnight  she  was  washing  her 
hair.  If  only  she  could  slip  out  of  her  body,  run 
away  from  herself  into  a  new  personality,  forget 
completely  all  that  she  was  or  had  been! 

This  was  hysteria,  she  told  herself.  "  Only  hold 
on,  have  patience,  wait.  The  days  will  go  past 
you.  Life  clears  itself,  hke  running  water.  It  will 
be  all  right  somehow.  Don't  try  to  think.  You  're 
too  tired." 

At  dawn  her  eyelids  were  weary  at  last,  and  she 
fell  asleep.     She  prolonged  the  sleep  consciously, 


DIVERGING  ROADS  275 

half  waking  at  intervals  as  the  day  grew  brighter, 
pulling  oblivion  over  her  head  again  to  shield  her- 
self from  living,  as  a  child  hides  beneath  a  quilt 
to  keep  away  darkness. 

Outside  the  world  had  awakened,  going  busily 
about  its  affairs  while  the  day  passed  over  it.  The 
noise  of  the  streets,  voices,  automobile-horns,  rumb- 
ling wheels,  came  through  the  open  windows  with 
the  hot  sunshine,  running  like  the  sound  of  a  river 
through  her  sleep.  She  awoke  in  the  late  afternoon, 
heavy-lidded,  with  creased  cheeks,  but  once  more 
quietly  self-controlled. 

Refreshed  by  a  cold  plunge,  crisply  dressed,  com- 
posed, she  ate  dinner  in  the  big,  softly  lighted  din- 
ing-room, nodding  across  white  tables  to  the  busi- 
ness men  she  knew.  Then,  led  by  an  impulse  she 
did  not  question,  she  went  out  into  the  crowded 
streets.  With  her  walked  the  ghost  of  the  girl  who 
had  come  down  from  Masonville,  dazzled,  wide- 
eyed,  so  pitifully  sure  of  herself,  to  learn  to  tele- 
graph. 

Sacramento  had  changed.  It  had  been  a  big 
town;  it  was  now  a  city,  radiating  interurban  lines, 
thrusting  tall  buildings  toward  the  sky,  smudging 
that  sky  with  the  smoke  of  factories  and  canneries. 
Its  streets  were  sluggishly  moving  floods  of  auto- 
mobiles; its  wharves  were  crowded  with  boats; 
across  the  wide,  yellow  river  spans  of  new  bridges 
were  reaching  toward  each  other. 


276  DIVERGING  ROADS 

All  the  statistics  of  the  city's  growth,  of  the  great 
reclamation  projects,  of  the  rich  farms  spreading 
over  the  old  grain  lands,  were  at  Helen's  finger-tips. 
A  hundred  times  she  had  gone  over  them,  drawn 
conclusions  from  them,  pounded  home-selling  argu- 
ments with  them,  since  she  had  added  Sacramento 
valley  lands  to  the  San  Joaquin  properties  she 
handled.  But  more  eloquently  her  reviving  memo- 
ries showed  her  the  gulf  between  the  old  days  and 
the  new. 

Mrs.  Brown's  little  restaurant  and  the  room  where 
Helen  had  lived,  were  gone.  In  their  place  stood  a 
six-story  office  building  of  raw  new  brick.  That  im- 
posing street  down  which  she  had  stumbled  awk- 
wardly after  Mrs.  Campbell  was  now  a  row  of  dingy 
boarding-houses.  Mrs.  Campbell's  house  itself, 
once  so  awe-inspiring,  had  become  a  disconsolate 
building  with  peeling  paint,  standing  in  a  ragged 
lawn,  and  across  the  porch  where  she  and  Paul  had 
said  good-by  in  the  dawn  there  was  now  a  black  and 
gold  sign,  "  Ah  Wong,  Chinese  Herb  Doctor.'*  She 
went  quickly  past  it. 

For  the  first  time  in  the  hurried  years  her  thoughts 
turned  inward,  self -questioning,  and  she  tried  to  fol- 
low step  by  step  the  changes  that  had  taken  place  in 
her.  But  she  could  not  see  them  clearly  for  the 
memory  of  the  girl  that  she  had  been,  a  girl  she  saw 
now  as  a  piteous  young  thing  quite  outside  herself,  a 
lovely,  emotional,  valiant  young  struggler  against 


DIVERGING  ROADS  ^77 

unknown  odds..  She  felt  an  aching  compassion,  a 
longing  to  shield  that  girl  from  the  life  she  had  faced 
with  such  blind  courage,  to  save  her  youth  and 
sweetness.  But  the  girl,  of  course,  was  gone,  like 
the  room  from  which  she  had  looked  so  eagerly  at 
the  automobile. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  she  walked  briskly 
through  the  groups  in  the  hotel  lobby,  took  her 
key  from  the  room  clerk  and  left  a  call  for  the 
early  San  Francisco  train.  She  would  reach  the  city 
in  time  to  get  the  final  contracts  for  the  sale  she  had 
made  yesterday,  to  take  them  to  San  Jose  and  get 
them  signed  the  same  day.  The  thought  of  Bert 
lay  like  a  menace  in  the  back  of  her  mind,  but  she 
kept  it  there.  She  could  not  foresee  what  would 
happen ;  she  would  meet  it  when  it  occurred.  Mean- 
time she  would  go  about  her  work  as  usual.  Her 
attitude  toward  the  future,  her  attitude  toward  even 
herself,  was  one  of  waiting.     She  fell  quietly  asleep. 

On  the  train  next  morning  she  bought  the  San 
Francisco  papers.  The  headlines  screamed  the 
news  at  her.  It  was  war.  She  missed  one  train 
to  San  Jose  in  order  to  talk  to  Mr.  Clark.  The  news 
had  made  no  change  in  the  atmosphere  of  Clark  & 
Hayward's  wide,  clean-looking  office,  where  sales- 
men lounged  against  the  counters,  their  elbows  rest- 
ing on  plate  glass  that  covered  surveyor's  maps  and 
photographs  of  alfalfa  fields.  The  talk,  as  she 
stopped  to  speak  to  one  and  another,  was  the  usual 


278  DIVERGING  ROADS 

news  of  sales  made  and  lost,  quarrels  over  commis- 
sions, personal  gossip.  She  waited  her  turn  to 
enter  Mr.  Clark's  office,  and  when  it  came  she 
looked  at  him  with  a  keenness  hidden  under  the 
friendliness  of  her  eyes. 

She  liked  to  talk  to  Mr.  Clark.  Three  years  of 
working  with  him  had  brought  her  an  understand- 
ing of  this  nervous,  quick-witted,  harassed  man. 
There  was  comradeship  between  them,  a  sympathy 
tempered  by  wariness  on  both  sides.  Neither  would 
have  lost  the  slightest  business  advantage  for  the 
other,  but  beyond  that  necessary  antagonism  they 
were  friends.  She  watched  with  pleasure  the  quick 
play  of  his  mind,  managing  hers  as  he  would  have 
handled  the  thoughts  of  a  buyer ;  she  was  conscious 
that  he  saw  the  motives  behind  her  method  of  coun- 
ter-attack; a  business  interview  between  them  was 
like  a  friendly  bout  between  fencers.  But  he  spoke 
to  her  sometimes  of  the  wife  and  children  whose  pic- 
tures were  on  his  desk ;  she  knew  how  deeply  he  was 
devoted  to  them.  And  once,  during  an  idle  evening 
in  a  Stockton  hotel,  he  had  held  her  breathless  with 
the  whole  story  of  his  business  career,  talking  to  her 
as  he  might  have  talked  to  himself. 

To-day  there  seemed  to  her  an  added  shade  of  ef- 
fort in  his  briskly  cheerful  manner.  The  lines 
around  his  shrewd  eyes  had  deepened  since  she  first 
knew  him,  and  it  struck  her,  as  she  settled  into  the 
chair  facing  his  across  the  flat  desk,  that  his  hair 


DIVERGING  ROADS  279 

was  quite  gray.  With  the  alert,  keen  expression 
taken  from  his  face  he  would  appear  an  old  man. 

This  expression  was  intensified  when  she  spoke  of 
the  war,  questioned  its  effect  on  the  business.  It 
would  have  no  effect,  he  assured  her.  The  future 
had  never  been  brighter;  Sacramento  lands  were 
booming;  fifty  new  settlers  were  going  into  Ripley 
Farmland  Acres  that  fall.  Chaos  on  the  stock 
market  would  make  the  solid  investment  values  of 
land  even  more  apparent.  If  the  war  lasted  a  year 
or  longer  the  prices  of  American  crops  would  rise. 

"  I  was  wondering  about  the  psychological  effect," 
she  murmured.  Mr.  Clark  ran  a  nervous  hand 
through  his  hair. 

'*  Oh,  that  *s  all  right.  High  prices  will  take  care 
of  the  buyer's  psychology." 

She  laughed. 

"  While  you  take  care  of  the  salesman's."  A 
twinkle  in  his  eyes  answered  the  smile  in  hers,  but 
she  spoke  again  before  he  replied.  "  Mr.  Clark, 
I  'd  like  to  ask  you  something  —  rather  personal. 
[What  do  you  really  get  out  of  business?" 

A  quizzical  smile  deepened  the  lines  around  his 
mouth. 

"  Well,  I  got  two  million  dollars  out  of  it  in  the 
Portland  boom !  It 's  a  game,"  he  said  after  a 
moment.  "  Just  a  game.  That 's  all.  I  've  made 
two  fortunes  —  you  know  that  —  and  lost  them. 
And  now  I  'm  climbing  up  again.     Oh,  if  I  had  it  to 


28o  DIVERGING  ROADS 

do  over  again,  I  — "  He  changed  the  words  on  his 
lips, — "  I  'd  do  the  same  thing.  No  doubt  about  it. 
We  all  think  we  would  n't,  but  we  would.  We  don't 
make  our  lives.     They  make  us.'' 

"Fatalist?^' 

"  Fatalist."  They  smiled  at  each  other  again  as 
she  rose  and  held  out  her  Hand.  He  kept  it  a  mo- 
ment in  a  steadying  grasp.  "  By  the  way,  have  you 
heard  that  your  husband  's  around  ?  " 

"  Yes."  She  thanked  him  with  her  eyes. 
"  Good-by." 

She  was  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  futility,  of  the 
hopeless  muddle  of  living,  while  the  train  carried 
her  down  the  peninsula  toward  San  Jose.  To  es- 
cape from  it  she  concentrated  her  attention  on  the 
afternoon  papers. 

They  were  filled  with  wild  rumors,  with  names 
of  strange  towns  in  Belgium,  a  mass  of  clamoring 
bulletins,  confusing,  yet  somehow  making  clear  a 
picture  of  gray  hordes  moving,  irresistible  as  a 
monstrous  machine,  toward  France,  toward  Paris. 
She  was  surprised  by  her  passion  of  resistance.  In- 
tolerable, that  the  Germans  should  march  into  Paris  1 
Why  should  she  care  so  fiercely,  she  who  knew  noth- 
ing of  Paris,  nothing  but  chance  scraps  of  facts 
about  Europe? 

"  I  must  learn  French,"  she  said  to  herself,  and 
was  appalled  by  the  multitude  of  things  she  did 
not  know,  both  without  and  within  herself. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  281 

The  unsigned  contracts  in  their  long  manila  enve- 
lope were  hke  an  anchor  in  a  tossing  sea.  She  must 
get  them  signed  that  night.  It  was  something  to 
do,  a  definite  action.  She  telephoned  from  the  sta- 
tion, making  an  appointment  with  the  buyer,  and 
felt  the  familiar  routine  closing  around  her  again 
while  the  street-car  carried  her  down  First  Street 
to  her  office. 

Bert  was  sitting  in  her  chair,  smoking  and  talking 
enthusiastically  to  Hutchinson,  when  she  opened  the 
door.  The  shock  petrified  them  all.  The  two  men 
stared  at  her,  Hutchinson's  expression  of  easy  good 
humor  frozen  on  his  face;  Bert's  hand,  extended  in 
the  old,  flashing  gesture,  suspended  in  the  air.  The 
door  closed  behind  her. 

Later  she  remembered  Hutchinson's  blood-red 
face,  his  awkward,  even  comical,  efforts  to  stammer 
that  he  had  n't  expected  her,  that  he  must  be  going, 
his  blind  search  for  his  hat,  his  confused  departure. 
At  the  moment  she  seemed  to  be  advancing  to  meet 
Bert  in  an  otherwise  empty  room,  and  though  she 
felt  herself  trembling  from  head  to  foot  her  hands 
and  her  voice  were  quite  steady. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said,  beginning  to  un- 
button her  gloves. 

Though  she  had  not  been  able  to  remember  his 
face,  it  was  as  familiar  as  if  she  had  seen  it  every 
day;  the  low  white  forehead  with  the  lock  of  fair 
hair  across  it,  the  bright  eyes,  the  aquiline  nose, 


282  DIVERGING  ROADS 

the  rather  shapeless  mouth  —  No,  she  had  not  re- 
membered that  his  mouth  was  hke  that.  Her  ex- 
perienced eye  saw  self-indulgence  and  dissipation  in 
the  soft  flesh  of  his  cheeks,  the  faint  puffiness  of 
the  eyelids.  Her  trembling  was  increasing,  but  it 
did  not  affect  her.  She  was  quite  cool  and  con- 
trolled. 

She  heard  unmoved  his  cajoling,  confident  expos- 
tulation. That  was  a  nice  way  to  meet  a  man  when 
he  'd  come  —  she  brushed  aside  his  embracing  arm 
with  a  movement  of  her  shoulder.  "  We  *d  better 
sit  down.  Pardon  me."  She  took  the  chair  he  had 
left,  her  own  chair,  from  which  she  had  handled  so 
many  land-buyers. 

"  God,  but  you  're  hard !  "  His  accusation  held 
an  unwilling  admiration.  She  saw  that  the  way  to 
lose  this  man  was  to  cling  to  him;  he  wanted  her 
now,  because  she  had  no  need  of  him.  Memories 
of  all  the  wasted  love,  the  self-surrender  and  faith 
she  had  given  him,  for  which  he  had  not  cared  at 
all,  which  he  had  never  seen  or  known  how  to  value, 
came  back  to  her  in  a  flood  of  pain.  Her  lips 
tightened,  and  looking  at  Him  across  the  desk,  she 
said: 

**Do  you  think  so?  I'm  sorry.  But  —  just 
what  do  you  want?  " 

He  met  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  she  saw  his 
effort  to  adjust  himself,  his  falling  back  upon  his 
old  self-confidence  in  bending  other  minds  to  his 


DIVERGING  ROADS  283 

desires.  He  could  not  believe  that  any  one  would 
successfully  resist  him,  that  any  woman  was  im- 
pervious to  his  charm.  And  suddenly  she  felt  hard, 
hard  through  and  through.  She  wanted  to  hurt  him 
cruelly;  she  wanted  to  tear  and  wound  his  self- 
centered  egotism,  to  reach  somewhere  a  sensitive 
spot  in  him  and  stab  it. 

He  wanted  her,  he  said.  He  wanted  his  wife. 
She  heard  in  his  voice  a  note  she  knew,  the  deep, 
caressing  tone  he  kept  for  women,  and  she  saw  that 
he  used  it  skilfully,  aware  of  its  effect. 

He  had  gone  through  hell.  "  Through  hell/'  he 
repeated  vibrantly.  He  did  not  expect  her  to  un- 
derstand. She  was  a  woman.  She  could  not  re- 
alize the  tortures  of  remorse,  the  agonies  of  soul, 
the  miseries  of  those  years  without  her.  He 
sketched  them  for  her,  with  voice  and  gestures  ap- 
pealing to  her  pity.  He  had  been  a  brute  to  her; 
he  had  been  a  yellow  cur  to  leave  her  so.  He  ad- 
mitted it,  magnificently  humble. 

He  had  promised  himself  that  he  would  not  come 
back  to  her  until  he  was  on  his  feet  again.  He  had 
reformed.  He  was  going  to  work.  He  was  going 
to  cut  out  the  booze.  Already  he  had  the  most 
glittering  prospects.  Fer  de  Leon,  the  king  of  pat- 
ent-medicine men,  was  going  to  put  on  a  tremen- 
dous campaign  in  Australia.  Fer  de  Leon  had  ab- 
solute confidence  in  him ;  he  could  sign  a  contract  at 
any  time  for  fifteen  thousand  a  year. 


284  DIVERGING  ROADS 

He  wanted  her  to  come  with  him.  He  needed 
her.  With  her  beside  him  he  could  resist  all  temp- 
tations. She  was  an  angel ;  she  was  the  only  woman 
he  had  ever  really  loved  and  respected.  With 
her  he  could  do  anything.  Without  her  he  would 
be  hopeless,  heartsick.  God  only  knew  what  would 
happen.  ''You'll  forgive  me,  won't  you?  You 
won't  turn  me  down.  You  '11  give  me  another 
chance? " 

She  was  looking  down  at  her  hands,  unable  any 
longer  to  read  what  her  eyes  saw  in  him.  Her 
hands  lay  folded  on  the  edge  of  the  desk,  composed 
and  quiet,  not  moved  at  all  by  the  sick  trembling  that 
was  shaking  her.  The  desire  to  hurt  him  was  gone. 
His  appeal  to  her  pity  had  dissolved  it  in  contempt. 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  she  said  with  effort.  "  I  hope 
you  —  you  will  go  on  and  —  succeed  in  everything. 
I  know  you  will,  of  course."  She  said  it  in  a  tone 
of  strong  conviction,  trying  now  to  save  his  ego- 
tism. She  did  not  want  to  hurt  him.  "  I  know 
you  have  done  the  best  you  could.  It 's  all  right. 
It  is  n't  anything  you  've  done.  I  don't  blame  you 
for  that.     But  it  seems  to  me  — " 

"  Good  God !  How  can  you  be  so  cold  ?  "  he 
cried. 

Even  her  hands  were  shaking  now,  and  she 
quieted  them  by  clasping  them  together.  "  Perhaps 
I  am  cold,"  she  said.     '^  You  see  already  that  we 


DIVERGING  ROADS  285 

could  n't  —  make  a  success  of  it.  It  is  n't  your 
fault.  We  just  don't  —  suit  each  other.  We 
never  did  really.  It  was  all  a  mistake."  Her 
throat  contracted. 

"  So  it 's  another  man !  "  he  said.  "  I  might  have 
known  it." 

"  No."  She  was  quiet  even  under  the  sneer. 
"  It  is  n't  that.  But  there  was  never  anything  to 
build  on  between  you  and  me.  You  think  you  want 
me  now  only  because  you  can't  have  me.  So  it  will 
not  really  hurt  you  if  I  gtt  a  divorce.  And  1  'd 
rather  do  that.  Then  we  can  both  start  again  — 
with  clean  slates.  And  I  hope  you  will  succeed. 
And  have  everything  you  want."  She  rose,  one 
hand  heavily  on  the  desk,  and  held  out  the  other. 
"  Good-by." 

Her  attempt  to  end  the  scene  with  frankness  and 
dignity  failed.  He  could  not  believe  that  he  had 
lost  this  object  he  had  attempted  to  gain.  His 
wounded  vanity  demanded  that  he  conquer  her  re- 
sistance. He  recalled  their  memories  of  happiness, 
tried  to  sway  her  with  pictures  of  the  future  he 
would  give  her,  appealed  to  generosity,  to  pity,  to 
admiration.  He  played  upon  every  chord  of  the 
feminine  heart  that  he  knew. 

She  stood  immovable,  sick  with  misery,  and  saw 
behind  his  w^ords  the  motives  that  prompted  them, 
self-love,  self-assurance,  baffled  antagonism.     She 


286  DIVERGING  ROADS 

felt  again,  as  something  outside  herself,  the  magne- 
tism, the  force  like  an  electric  current,  that  had  con- 
quered her  once. 

"  I  really  wish  you  would  go,"  she  said.  "  All 
this  gains  nothing  for  either  of  us."  At  last  he 
went. 

"  You  women  are  all  alike.  Don't  think  you  Ve 
fooled  me.  It 's  another  man  with  more  money. 
If  I  were  not  a  gentleman  you  would  n't  get  away  so 
easily  with  this  divorce  talk.  But  I  am.  Go  get 
it !  "     The  door  crashed  behind  him. 

She  did  not  move  for  a  long  moment.  Then  she 
went  into  the  inner  office,  locked  the  door  behind 
her,  and  sat  down.  Her  glance  fell  on  her  clenched 
hands.  She  had  not  worn  her  wedding  ring  for 
some  time,  but  the  finger  was  still  narrowed  a  little, 
and  on  the  inner  side  a  smooth,  white  mark  showed 
where  it  had  been.  Quietly  she  folded  her  arms 
on  the  desk  and  hid  her  face  against  them.  After 
a  little  while  she  began  to  sob,  rough,  hard  sobs  that 
tore  her  throat  and  forced  a  few  burning  tears  from 
her  eyes. 

An  hour  went  by,  and  another.  She  was  roused, 
then,  by  the  sound  of  steps  in  the  outer  office. 
Doubtless  a  prospect  had  come  in.  She  lifted  her 
head,  and  waited,  without  moving,  until  the  steps 
went  out  again.  The  noise  of  the  streets  came  up 
to  her  as  usual ;  street-cars  clanged  past,  a  newsboy 
cried  an  extra.     Across  the  corner  the  hands  of  the 


DIVERGING  ROADS  287 

clock  in  the  Bank  of  San  Jose  building  marked  off 
the  minutes  with  little  jerks. 

It  was  six  o'clock.  An  urgent  summons  knocked 
at  a  closed  door  in  her  mind.  Six  o'clock.  She 
looked  at  her  wrist-watch,  and  memory  awoke.  She 
had  an  appointment  at  six-thirty,  to  close  the  final 
contracts  on  the  forty-acre  sale.  Hutchinson  was 
depending  on  her  to  handle  it.  Below  the  window 
the  newsboy  cried  "  War !  "  again. 

Wearily  she  bathed  her  face  with  cold  water, 
combed  her  hair,  adjusted  her  hat.  Contracts  in 
hand,  she  locked  the  office  door  behind  her,  and  her 
face  wore  its  necessary  pleasant,  untroubled  ex- 
pression. The  buyer's  wife  was  charmed  by  her 
smile,  and  although  the  man  was  already  somewhat 
disturbed  by  the  war  news,  Helen  was  able  to  per- 
suade them  to  sign  the  contracts. 

A  week  later  she  announced  to  Hutchinson  that 
she  was  going  to  stop  selling  land.  She  could  give 
him  no  reasons  that  satisfied  his  startled  curiosity. 
She  was  simply  quitting;  that  was  all.  He  could 
manage  the  office  himself  or  get  another  partner; 
her  leaving  would  make  little  difference. 

He  protested,  trying  half-heartedly  to  shake  her 
determination.  The  shattering  of  accustomed  and 
pleasant  routine  shocked  him;  he  was  like  a  man 
thrown  suddenly  from  a  boat  into  the  unstable 
water. 


288  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  But  what  do  you  want  to  do  it  for  ?  What 's 
the  idea  ?  Are  n't  we  getting  along  all  right  ?  '*  He 
was  longing  to  ask  if  she  were  going  to  Bert, 
whose  arrival  and  immediate  departure  had  not 
been  explained  to  him.  The  whole  organization, 
she  knew,  was  discussing  it,  and  Hutchinson,  on  the 
very  scene  of  their  meeting,  was  in  the  unhappy  po- 
sition of  being  unable  to  give  the  interesting  details. 
But  he  did  not  quite  venture  to  break  through  her 
reserve  with  a  direct  question.  He  scouted  her  sug- 
gestion that  the  war  would  affect  business.  "  Why, 
things  have  never  looked  better!  Here  we  Ve  just 
made  a  forty-acre  sale.  Sacramento  *s  booming, 
and  so  is  the  San  Joaquin.  Fifty  new  settlers  are 
going  into  Farmland  Acres  this  fall.  There  *s  go- 
ing to  be  a  boom  in  land.  Folk  are  going  to  see 
what  a  solid  investment  it  is,  the  way  stocks  are 
tumbling.  And  the  farmers  are  going  to  make 
money  hand  over  fist  if  the  war  lasts  a  couple  of 
years." 

"  Oh,  well,  maybe  you  're  right,"  she  conceded, 
remembering  the  twinkle  in  Mr.  Clark's  eye  when 
she  had  accused  him  of  taking  care  of  the  sales- 
man's psychology.  She  still  believed  that  spring 
would  see  a  slump  in  real-estate  business.  She  had 
learned  too  well  that  men  did  not  handle  their 
affairs  on  a  basis  of  cool  logic;  too  often  in  her 
own  work  she  had  taken  advantage  of  the  gusts  of 
impulse  and  unreasoning  emotion  that  swayed  them. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  289 

There  would  be  a  period  when  they  would  be  afraid ; 
no  facts  or  arguments  would  persuade  them  to  ex- 
change solid  cash  for  heavily  mortgaged  land.  But 
the  point  no  longer  interested  her. 

She  felt  a  profound  weariness,  an  unease  of  spirit 
that  was  like  the  ache  of  a  body  too  long  held  mo- 
tionless. Business  had  rested  on  her  like  a  weight 
for  nearly  four  years.  She  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
She  must  relax  the  self-control  that  held  her  own 
impulses  and  emotions  in  its  tight  grip.  The  need 
was  too  strong  to  be  longer  resisted,  too  deep  in 
herself  to  be  clearly  understood.  "  I  'm  tired,'*  she 
said.     "  I  'm  going  to  quit." 

An  agreement  dividing  their  deferred  commis- 
sions must  be  drawn  up  and  filed  with  the  San  Fran- 
cisco office.  Hutchinson  took  over  her  half-inter- 
est in  the  automobile  she  had  left  to  be  repaired  in 
Sacramento.  Already  his  mind  was  busy  with  new 
plans.  Since  she  would  no  longer  write  the  ad- 
vertising he  would  cut  it  out.  "  Want  ads  '11  be 
cheaper  and  good  enough,"  he  said. 

Thus  simply  the  bonds  were  cut  between  her  and 
all  that  had  filled  her  days  and  thoughts.  She  went 
home  to  the  little  bungalow,  put  the  files  of  her 
land  advertisements  out  of  sight,  hung  her  hat  and 
coat  in  the  closet. 

The  house  seemed  strange,  with  early-afternoon 
sunlight  streaming  through  the  living-room  win- 
dows.    It  was  delightfully  silent  and  empty.     Long 


290  DIVERGING  ROADS 

hours,  weeks,  months,  stretched  before  her  like  blank 
pages  on  which  she  might  write  anything  she  chose. 

She  went  through  the  rooms,  straightening  a  pic- 
ture, moving  a  chair,  taking  up  a  vase  of  withering 
flowers.  The  curtains  stirred  in  a  cool  breeze  that 
poured  through  the  open  windows  and  ruffled  her 
hair.  It  seemed  to  blow  through  her  thoughts,  too ; 
she  felt  clean  and  cool  and  refreshed.  With  a  deep, 
simple  joy  she  began  to  think  of  little  things.  She 
would  discharge  the  woman  who  came  to  clean ;  she 
would  polish  the  windows  and  dust  the  furniture 
and  wash  the  dishes  herself.  To-morrow  she  would 
get  some  gingham  and  make  aprons.  Perhaps  Ma- 
bel and  the  baby  would  come  down  for  a  visit ;  she 
would  write  and  ask  them. 

She  was  cutting  roses  to  fill  the  emptied  vase 
when  she  thought  of  Paul.  He  came  into  her 
thoughts  quite  simply,  as  he  had  come  before  Bert's 
return.  She  thought,  with  a  warmth  at  her  heart 
and  a  dimple  in  her  cheek,  that  she  would  telephone 
him  to  come  next  Sunday,  and  she  would  make  a 
peach  shortcake  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

h  I  \HE  shortcake  was  a  triumph  when  she  set  it, 
X  steaming  hot  and  oozing  amber  juice,  on  the 
table  between  them.  "  You  certainly  are  a  wonder, 
Helen! "  Paul  said,  struck  6y  its  crumbling  perfec- 
tion. "  Here  we  have  n't  been  in  the  house  an 
hour,  and  with  a  simple  twist  of  the  wrist  you  give 
a  fellow  a  dinner  like  this !  Lucky  we  are  n't  living 
a  couple  of  centuries  ago.  You  'd  been  burned  for 
a  witch."  His  eyes,  resting  on  her,  were  filled  with 
warm  light. 

Already  he  seemed  to  irradiate  a  glow  of  con- 
tentment; the  hint  of  sternness  in  his  face  had 
melted  in  a  joy  that  was  almost  boyish,  and  all  day 
there  had  been  a  touch  of  possessive  pride  in  his 
contemplation  of  her.  It  intoxicated  her;  she  felt 
the  exhilaration  of  victory  in  her  submission  to  it, 
and  a  sense  of  her  power  over  him  gave  sparkle  to 
her  delight  in  his  nearness. 

Her  bubbling  spirits  had  been  irrepressible;  she 
had  flashed  into  whimsicalities,  laughed  at  him, 
teased  him,  melted  into  sudden  tendernesses.  To- 
gether they  had  played  with  light-hearted  absurdi- 
ties,   chattering   nonsense   while    they   explored   a 

291 


292  DIVERGING  ROADS 

rocky  canyon  in  Alumn  Rock  Park,  a  canyon 
peopled  only  with  bright-eyed  furtive  creatures 
of  the  forest  whisking  through  tangled  un- 
derbrush and  over  fallen  logs.  They  had  looked 
at  each  other  with  dancing  eyes,  smothering 
bursts  of  mirth  like  children  hiding  some 
riotous  joke,  when  they  came  down  into  the  holiday 
crowd  around  the  hot-dog  counters  at  the  park  gate, 
and  side  by  side  with  Portuguese  and  Italians,  they 
had  bought  ice-cream  cones  from  a  hurdy-gurdy  and 
listened  to  the  band. 

Now  she  looked  at  him  across  her  own  dinner- 
table,  and  felt  that  the  last  touch  of  perfection  had 
been  given  a  happy  day.     She  laughed  delightedly. 

"  It 's  a  funny  thing  when  you  think  of 
it,"  he  went  on,  pouring  cream  over  the 
fruity  slices.  "  Here  you  *re  working  all  week  in 
an  office  —  just  about  as  good  a  little  business  wo- 
man as  they  make  'em,  1  guess  —  and  then  on  top 
of  it  you  come  home  and  cook  like  mother  never 
did.     It  beats  me." 

"  Well  —  you  see  I  like  to  cook,"  she  said.  "  It 's 
recreation.  Lots  of  successful  business  men  are 
pretty  good  golf  players.  Besides  I  'm  not  a  busi- 
ness woman  any  more.  I  Ve  left  the  office.  Shall 
I  pour  your  coffee  now  ?  " 

"Left  the  office!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  for? 
When?" 

"  The  other  day.     I  don't  know  why.     I  felt  — 


DIVERGING  ROADS  293 

oh,  I  don't  know.  I  just  quit.  Why,  Paul !  "  She 
was  startled  by  his  expression. 

"  Well  —  it  would  rather  surprise  anybody,"  he 
said.  "  A  sudden  change  like  this.  You  did  n*t 
give  me  any  idea — "  There  was  a  shade  of  re- 
proach in  his  tone,  which  shifted  quickly  to  pug- 
nacity. *'  That  partner  of  yours  —  what  's-his- 
name  ?  He  has  n't  been  putting  anything  over  on 
you?" 

"Why,  no,  of  course  not!  I  just  made  up  my 
mind  to  stop  selling  land.  I  'm  tired  of  it.  Be- 
sides, it  looks  as  though  there  'd  be  a  slump  in  the 
business." 

"  Well,  you  can't  tell.  However,  you  may  be 
right,"  he  conceded.  He  smiled  ruefully.  "It's 
going  to  be  pretty  hard  on  me,  though  —  your  quit- 
ting.    It 's  a  long  way  to  Masonville." 

"To  Masonville?"  she  repeated  in  surprise. 

"  Are  n't  you  going  there?  " 

"Why  on  earth  should  I  go  to  Masonville?" 
She  caught  at  the  words,  not  quite  quickly  enough 
to  stop  them.  "  Oh,  I  know  —  my  mother.  Of 
course.  But,  to  tell  the  truth,  Paul,  I  'm  fond  of 
her  and  all  that,  you  know  I  've  been  up  to  see  her 
a  good  many  times, —  but  after  all  we  've  been  apart 
a  long  time,  and  my  life  's  been  so  different.  She 
does  n't  exactly  know  what  to  make  of  me.  I  hon- 
estly don't  think  either  of  us  would  be  very  happy 
if  I  were  to  go  back  there  now.     She  has  Mabel, 


294  DIVERGING  ROADS 

you  know,  and  the  baby.  It  is  n't  as  though  — " 
Floundering  in  her  explanations,  she  broke  through 
them,  with  a  smile,  to  frankness.  "  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  never  even  thought  of  going  back  there." 

There  was  bewilderment  in  his  eyes,  but  he  re- 
pressed a  question. 

"Just  as  you  like,  of  course.  Naturally  I  sup- 
posed,—  but  I  'm  glad  you  are  n't  going.  Two 
lumps,  please." 

"  As  though  I  would  n't  remember ! "  she 
laughed.  But  as  she  dropped  the  sugar  into  his 
cup  and  tilted  the  percolator,  a  memory  flashed 
across  her  mind.  She  saw  him  sitting  at  a  little 
table  in  a  dairy  lunch  room,  struggling  to  hide  his 
embarrassment,  carefully  dipping  two  spoonsful  of 
sugar  from  the  chipped  white  bowl,  and  the  memory 
brought  with  it  many  others. 

The  iridescent  mood  of  the  afternoon  was  gone, 
and  reaching  for  the  deeper  and  more  firm  basis  of 
emotion  between  them,  she  braced  herself  to  speak 
of  another  thing  she  had  not  told  him. 

Constraint  had  fallen  upon  them ;  they  were  sepa- 
rated by  their  diverging  thoughts,  and  uneasily,  with 
effort,  they  broke  the  silence  with  disconnected 
scraps  of  talk.  Time  was  going  by ;  already  twilight 
crept  into  the  room,  and  looking  at  his  watch,  Paul 
spoke  of  his  train.  Helen  led  the  way  to  the  porch, 
where  the  shade  of  climbing  rose-vines  softened  the 
last  clear  gray  light  of  the  day.     There  was  sadness 


DIVERGING  ROADS  295 

in  this  wan  reflection  of  the  departed  sunlight ;  the 
air  was  still,  and  the  creaking  of  the  wicker  chair, 
when  Helen  settled  into  it,  the  sharp  crackle  of 
Paul's  match  as  he  lighted  his  after-dinner  cigar, 
seemed  irreverently  loud.  With  a  sudden  keen  need 
to  be  nearer  him,  Helen  drew  a  deep  breath,  pre- 
paring to  speak  and  to  clear  away  forever  the  last 
barrier  between  them. 

But  his  words  met  hers  before  they  were  uttered. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  then,  Helen?  —  If 
you  are  n't  going  home?  "  he  added,  before  her  un- 
comprehension. 

"Oh,  that!  Why  — I  haven't  thought  exactly. 
I  *d  like  to  stay  at  home,  stay  here  in  my  own  house. 
There  *s  so  much  to  do  in  a  house,"  she  said,  vaguely. 
"  I  've  never  had  time  to  do  it  before." 

His  voice  was  indulgent. 

"  That  '11  be  fine !  It 's  just  what  you  ought  to 
have  a  chance  to  do.  But,  see  here,  Helen,  of  course 
it 's  none  of  my  business  yet,  in  a  way,  but  naturally 
I  'd  worry  about  it.  It  takes  an  income  to  keep  up 
a  house,  you  know.  I  'd  like  —  you  know  every- 
thing I  've  got  is  —  is  just  the  same  as  yours,  al- 
ready." 

"  Paul,  you  dear !  Don't  worry  about  that  at  all. 
If  I  needed  any  help  I  'd  ask  you,  truly.  But  I 
don't." 

"Well,  we  might  as  well  look  at  it  practically," 
he  persisted.     "  It 's  going  to  figure  up  maybe  more 


296  DIVERGING  ROADS 

than  you  think  to  keep  this  house  going.  Not  that 
I  want  you  to  give  it  up  if  you  'd  rather  stay  here/' 
he  parenthesized,  quickly.  "  I  'd  rather  have  you 
here  than  in  Mason ville,  and  I  'd  rather  have  you  in 
Ripley  than  here,  for  that  matter.  Say,  why 
could  n't  you  come  down  there  ?  I  could  fix  up  that 
little  bungalow  on  Harper  Street.  And  every  one 
knows  you  're  an  old  friend  of  mother's." 

"  I  might  do  something  like  that,"  she  said  at 
random.  She  was  troubled  by  the  knowledge  that 
their  hour  was  slipping  past  and  the  conversation 
going  in  the  wrong  direction. 

"  It  would  cost  you  hardly  anything  to  live  there. 
And  we  could  — " 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "I'd  love  that  part  of  it. 
You  know  how  I  'd  like  to  see  you  every  minute. 
But  there 's  plenty  of  time.  I  '11  think  about  it, 
dear." 

"  That 's  just  the  point.  There  is  so  much  time. 
A  whole  year  and  more  before  I  can  —  and  it  would 
be  just  like  you  to  half  starve  yourself  and  never 
say  a  word  to  me  about  it." 

"  O  Paul !  "  she  laughed,  "  you  are  so  funny ! 
And  I  love  you  for  it.  Well,  then,  listen.  I  have 
a  little  over  twelve  hundred  dollars  in  the  bank. 
Not  much,  is  it,  to  show  for  all  the  years  I  've  been 
working  ?  But  it  will  keep  me  from  growing  gaunt 
and  hollow-eyed  for  lack  of  food,  quite  a  little  while. 
And  if  I  really  did  need  more  there 's  a  whole  world 


DIVERGING  ROADS  297 

full  of  money  all  around  me,  you  know.  So  please 
don't  worry.  I  promise  to  eat  and  eat.  I  promise 
never  to  stop  eating  as  long  as  I  live.  Regularly, 
three  times  a  day,  every  single  day ! " 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  His  cigar-end  glowed  red 
for  a  minute  through  the  gathering  dusk.  She  put 
her  hand  on  his  sleeve,  and  it  moved  beneath  her 
fingers  until  its  firm,  warm  grip  closed  over  them. 
Palm  against  palm  and  fingers  interlaced,  they  sat 
in  silence.  '*  It 's  going  to  be  a  long  time,"  he  said. 
After  a  long  moment  he  added  gruffly,  "  I  suppose 
you  've  —  begun  the  thing  —  seen  a  lawyer  ?  " 

"  I  'm  going  to,  this  week.  I  —  hate  to  —  some- 
how.    It 's  so  — " 

"  You  poor  dear !  I  wish  to  heaven  you  did  n't 
have  to  go  through  it.  But  I  suppose  it  won't  be  — 
there  won't  be  any  trouble.  Tell  me,  Helen,  hon- 
estly. You  do  want  to  do  it?  You  aren't  keep- 
ing —  anything  from  me  ?  " 

**  No.  I  do  want  to.  But  there 's  something 
I  've  got  to  tell  you.  He  's  come  back."  He  was 
instantly  so  still  that  his  immobility  was  more  start- 
ling than  a  cry.  At  the  faint  relaxing  of  his  hand, 
her  own  fled,  and  clenched  on  the  arm  of  her  chair. 
Quietly,  in  a  voice  that  was  stiff  from  being  held 
steady,  she  told  him  something  of  her  interview  with 
Bert.  "  I  thought  you  ought  to  know.  I  did  n't 
want  you  to  hear  it  from  some  one  else." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  told  me.     But  —  don't  let 's  ever 


298  DIVERGING  ROADS 

speak  of  him  again."  His  gesture  of  repugnance 
flung  the  cigar  in  a  glowing  arc  over  the  porch  rail- 
ing, and  it  lay  a  red  coal  in  the  grass. 

*'  I  don't  want  to."  She  rose  to  face  him,  put- 
ting her  hands  on  his  shoulders.  "  But,  Paul,  I 
want  you  to  understand.  He  never  was  anything 
to  me,  really.  Nothing  real,  I  mean.  It  was  just 
because  I  was  a  foolish  girl  and  lonely  and  tired 
of  working  —  and  I  did  n't  understand.  We  never 
were  really  married.'^  She  stumbled  among  inade- 
quate words,  trying  to  make  him  feel  what  she 
felt.  "  There  was  n't  any  reality  between  us,  any 
real  love,  nothing  solid  to  build  a  marriage  on. 
And  I  think  there  is  between  you  and  me." 

"  The  only  thing  I  want,"  he  said,  his  arms 
around  her,  "  the  only  thing  I  want  in  the  world  is 
just  to  take  you  home  and  take  care  of  you." 

She  kissed  him,  a  hushed  solemnity  in  her  heart. 
He  was  so  good,  so  fine  and  strong.  With  all  her 
soul  she  longed  to  be  worthy  of  him,  to  make  him 
happy,  to  be  able  to  build  with  him  a  serene  and 
beautiful  life. 

The  days  went  by  with  surprising  slowness.  In 
the  mornings,  waking  with  the  first  twittering  of  the 
birds  in  the  vines  over  the  sleeping  porch,  she  started 
upright,  to  relax  again  on  the  pillows  and  stretch 
luxuriously  between  the  cool  sheets,  with  delicious 
realization  that  the  whole,  long  day  was  hers.     But 


DIVERGING  ROADS  299 

her  body,  filled  with  energy,  rebelled  at  inaction. 
She  rose,  busying  her  mind  with  small  plans  while 
she  dressed  and  breakfasted.  At  ten  o'clock  she 
could  think  of  nothing  more  to  do  to  the  house  or 
the  garden,  and  still  time  stretched  before  her, 
prolonged  indefinitely,  empty. 

The  house,  lamentably  failing  as  an  occupation, 
became  a  prison.  She  escaped  from  it  to  the  streets. 
She  shopped  leisurely,  comparing  colors  and  fabrics 
and  prices,  seeking  the  bargains  she  had  been  obliged 
to  forego  while  she  was  working.  An  afternoon 
spent  in  this  way  might  save  her  a  dollar,  and  her 
business  sense  grinned  at  her  sardonically.  She 
might  meet  an  acquaintance,  a  woman  who  lived 
near  her,  and  over  ices  elaborately  disguised  with 
syrups  and  nuts  they  could  talk  of  the  movies,  the 
weather,  the  stupidities  of  servants.  Time  had  be- 
come an  adversary  to  be  destroyed  as  pleasantly  as 
possible.  In  the  long,  lazy  afternoons  she  sat  on 
a  neighboring  porch,  listening  to  talk  about  details, 
magnified,  distorted,  handled  over  and  over  again, 
and  while  her  fingers  were  busy  at  an  embroidery 
hoop,  stitching  bits  of  thread  back  and  forth  through 
bits  of  cloth,  her  mind  yawned  with  boredom. 

At  night,  letting  down  her  hair,  she  looked  back  at 
a  day  gone  from  her  life,  a  day  spent  in  sweeping 
and  dusting  and  making  pleasant  a  house  that  must 
be  swept  and  dusted  and  made  pleasant  on  the  mor- 
row, a  day  that  had  accomplished  several  inches  of 


300  DIVERGING  ROADS 

scalloping  on  a  tablecloth,  and  she  was  overwhelmed 
with  a  sense  of  futility.  "  After  all,  I  've  rather  en- 
joyed it,"  she  said.  *'  To  enjoy  a  day  —  what  more 
can  one  do  with  it?  "  The  argument  rang  hollow 
in  her  mind,  answered  only  by  an  uneasy  silence. 

If  she  were  with  Paul  the  days  would  mean  more, 
she  told  herself.  But  it  seemed  best  to  remain  in 
San  Jose  until  the  first  legal  formalities  were  done. 
The  case,  her  lawyer  told  her,  would  come  on  the 
court  calendar  in  four  or  five  weeks.  She  would 
have  no  difficulty  in  getting  a  decree.  **  But  can't 
you  charge  something  to  make  it  more  impressive? 
No  violence  ?  He  never  hit  you  or  threw  anything 
at  you  ?  "  The  lawyer's  eyes  filled  with  a  certain 
eagerness.  Wincing,  she  told  him  with  cold  fury 
that  she  would  charge  nothing  but  desertion.  No, 
she  wanted  no  alimony.  When,  disappointed,  he 
had  jotted  these  details  on  a  pad  and  tried  with 
professional  jocularity  to  make  her  smile,  she  es- 
caped, shrinking  with  loathing. 

Something  like  this  she  must  endure  again,  upon 
a  witness-stand  in  open  court.  Better  to  face  it 
alone,  to  finish  it  and  push  it  behind  her  into  the 
past  before  she  went  to  Ripley  to  meet  the  shrewd 
interest  of  Mrs.  Masters  and  the  warmth  of  Paul's 
sympathy.  Meantime  her  life  seemed  motionless 
as  a  treadmill  is  motionless,  and  a  vague  irritation 
nagged  at  her  nerves. 

She  began  to  frequent  the  public  library.     In  a 


DIVERGING  ROADS  301 

locked  room,  to  which  the  librarian  gave  her  the  key 
after  an  embarrassed  scrutiny,  she  found  on  forbid- 
den shelves  a  history  of  marriage,  and  curled  among 
the  cushions  on  her  window-seat,  she  spent  an  af- 
ternoon absorbed  in  tracing  that  institution  from 
the  first  faint  appreciation  of  the  property  value  of 
women  into  the  labyrinth  of  custom  and  morality  to 
which  it  led.  She  became  interested  in  marriage 
laws,  and  discovered  with  amazement  the  contracts 
so  blithely  entered  upon  by  men  and  women  who 
would  not  so  unquestioningly  subscribe  to  any  other 
legal  agreement.  When  she  wearied  of  this  sub- 
ject, she  turned  to  others  and,  with  an  interest  sharp- 
ened by  the  European  news,  she  devoured  history 
and  floundered  beyond  her  depths  in  economics. 
She  bought  a  French  dictionary  and  grammar  and, 
finding  them  but  palely  alluring  in  themselves,  she 
boldly  attacked  La  Livre  de  Mon  Ami,  digging  the 
meaning  from  its  charming  pages  eagerly  as  a  miner 
washing  gold.  But  the  nights  found  her  still 
haunted  by  a  restlessness  as  miserable  and  vague  as 
that  of  unused  muscles.  "  I  wish  I  were  doing 
something !  "  she  cried. 


CHAPTER  XX 

TWO  weeks  after  she  left  the  office  her  feet  took 
her  back  to  it,  as  if  by  voHtion  of  their  own. 
The  familiar  walls,  covered  with  photographs  of 
alfalfa  fields  and  tract  maps  painted  with  red  ink, 
closed  around  her  like  the  walls  of  home.  Hutchin- 
son sat  smoking  at  his  desk;  nothing  had  changed. 
She  said  that  she  had  only  dropped  in  for  a  mo- 
ment. How  was  business  ?  Her  eye  automatically 
noted  the  squares  of  red  on  the  maps.  "Hello! 
That  three-cornered  piece  by  Sycamore  Slough  's 
gone!     Who  sold  it?" 

'*  Watson,"  said  Hutchinson.  "  He  's  uncovered 
a  gold  mine  in  the  Healdsburg  country,  selling  the 
farmers  hand  over  fist.  Last  week  he  brought 
down  a  prospect  who  —  "  She  heard  the  story  to 
its  end,  capped  it  with  one  of  her  own,  and  two 
hours  had  passed  before  she  realized  it. 

In  another  week  it  had  become  her  habit  to  drop 
in  at  the  office  every  time  she  came  down  town,  to 
discuss  Hutchinson's  difficulties  with  him,  even  on 
occasion  to  help  him  handle  a  sale.  Business  pros- 
pects were  not  brightening;  the  prune  market  was 
disrupted  by  the  European  War,  orchardists  were 

302 


DIVERGING  ROADS  303 

panic  stricken;  already  a  formless,  darkening 
shadow  hung  over  men's  minds.  In  any  case  she 
had  no  intention  of  going  back  into  business ;  she  told 
herself  that  she  detested  it.  And  she  continued  to 
go  to  the  office. 

Hutchinson  awaited  her  one  day  with  a  bit  of 
news.  A  man  named  MacAdams  had  been  tele- 
phoning ;  he  was  coming  to  the  office ;  he  wanted  to 
see  her.  "  MacAdams  ?  "  she  repeated.  "  Odd  — 
I  seem  to  remember  the  name.'' 

MacAdams  came  in  five  minutes  later,  and  the 
sight  of  his  square,  deeply  lined  face,  the  deep- 
sunken  eyes  under  bushy  gray  brows,  brought  back 
to  her  vividly  all  the  details  of  her  first  sale.  She 
met  him  with  an  out-stretched  hand,  which  Mac- 
Adams ignored.  "  I  'd  hke  a  few  words  with  you, 
miss." 

She  led  him  into  the  inner  office,  closed  the  door, 
made  him  sit  down.  He  sat  upright,  gnarled  hands 
on  his  knees,  and  badly,  in  simple  words,  laid  his  case 
before  her.  The  land  she  had  sold  him  was  no 
good.  It  was  hard-pan  land.  After  he  bought  it 
he  had  saved  his  money  for  a  year  and  moved  to 
that  land.  "  They  told  me  I  could  make  the  pay- 
ments from  the  crops."  He  had  leveled  the  forty 
acres,  checked  it,  seeded  it  to  alfalfa.  The  alfalfa 
had  begun  to  die  the  second  year.  That  fall  he 
plowed  it  up  and  sowed  grain.  He  made  enough 
from  that  to  pay  for  seed  and  meet  the  water-tax. 


304  DIVERGING  ROADS 

In  the  spring  he  and  his  boy  had  planted  beans. 
The  boy  had  cultivated  them,  and  he  had  worked 
out,  making  money  enough  for  food.  The  irriga- 
tion ditch  broke;  they  could  get  no  water  for  the 
beans  when  they  needed  it.  The  beans  had  died. 
He  was  two  years  behind  in  his  payments ;  he  could 
not  meet  the  interest ;  he  owed  a  hundred  dollars  in 
grocery  bills. 

"  I  put  three  thousand  dollars  into  that  land.  I 
went  to  see  your  firm  about  it.  They  said  they 
would  give  me  more  time  to  pay  the  rest  if  I  would 
keep  up  the  interest.  But  I  want  no  more  farm- 
ing ;  I  'm  done.  They  can  have  the  land.  It 's  no 
good  on  God's  earth.  I  'm  blaming  nobody,  miss. 
A  man  that  is  a  fool  is  a  fool.  But  I  want  back 
some  of  the  money,  so  I  can  move  my  family  to 
the  city  and  live  till  I  get  a  job.  It  is  no  more 
than  justice,  and  I  come  to  ask  you  for  it." 

She  heard  him  to  the  end,  one  hand  supporting 
her  cheek,  the  other  drawing  aimless  pencil  marks 
on  the  desk  blotter.  His  request  was  hopeless,  she 
knew;  even  if  Clark  had  wanted  to  return  the 
money,  it  had  gone  long  ago  in  overhead  and  in 
payments  to  the  owners  of  the  land.  No  one  could 
be  compelled  to  return  any  part  of  the  payment 
MacAdams  had  made  on  the  contract  he  had  signed. 
Clearly  before  her  eyes  rose  the  picture  of  the 
little  tract  office,  the  smoky  oil  lamp,  Nichols  in  his 
chair,  and  she  herself  awaiting  the  word  from  Mac- 


DIVERGING  ROADS  305 

Adams'  lips  that  would  decide  her  fate  and  Bert's. 
Parrot-like  words,  repeated  many  times,  resaid 
themselves.  *'  I  'm  sorry.  Of  course  you  know 
that  in  any  large  tract  of  land  there  will  be  a  few 
poor  pieces.  I  acted  in  perfectly  good  faith;  you 
saw  the  land,  examined  it — "  She  met  Mac- 
Adams's  eyes.  *'  I  '11  give  back  all  the  money  I 
made  on  it,"  she  said. 

She  wrote  a  check  for  six  hundred  dollars,  blotted 
it  carefully,  handed  it  to  him.  His  stern  face  was 
as  tremulous  as  water  blown  upon  by  the  wind,  but 
he  said  nothing,  shaking  her  hand  with  a  force  that 
hurt  and  going  away  quickly  with  the  check.  After 
the  door  closed  behind  him  she  remembered  that 
she  had  got  only  three  hundred  dollars  from  the 
sale.  The  remainder  had  gone  to  cover  Bert's  debts. 
At  this,  shaken  by  emotions,  she  laughed  aloud. 

"  Well,  anyway,  now  you  '11  have  plenty  to  do !  " 
she  said  to  herself.  "  Now  you  '11  get  out  and 
scurry  for  money  to  five  on ! "  She  felt  a  mo- 
mentary chill  of  panic,  but  there  was  exhilaration 
in  it. 

She  would  not  return  to  selling  land.  Her  de- 
termination was  reinforced  by  the  possibility  that  if 
she  did  she  would  find  herself  penniless  before  she 
had  made  a  sale.  No,  she  must  earn  money  in  some 
other  way.  She  walked  slowly  home,  wrapped  in 
abstraction,  searching  her  mind  for  an  idea.  It  was 
like  gazing  at  the  blankness  of  a  cloudless  sky,  but 


3o6  DIVERGING  ROADS 

her  self-confidence  did  not  waver.  All  about  her 
men  no  wiser,  no  better  equipped  than  she,  were 
making  money. 

Sitting  at  the  walnut  desk  in  her  sunny  living- 
room  she  drew  a  sheet  of  paper  before  her  and  pre- 
pared to  take  stock  of  her  equipment.  Her  thoughts 
became  clearer  when  they  were  written.  But  after 
looking  for  some  time  at  the  blank  sheet,  she  be- 
gan carefully  to  draw  interlacing  circles  upon  it. 
There  seemed  nothing  to  write. 

She  was  twenty-six  years  old.  She  had  been 
working  for  eight  years.  Telegraphing  was  out  of 
the  question;  she  would  not  go  back  to  that.  Her 
four  years  of  selling  land  had  brought  her  nothing 
but  a  knowledge  of  human  minds,  a  certain  clever- 
ness in  handling  them,  and  a  distaste  for  doing  it. 
And  advertising.  She  could  write  advertisements; 
she  had  records  in  dollars  and  cents  that  proved  it. 
What  she  needed  was  an  idea,  something  novel, 
striking  and  soundly  valuable,  with  which  to  attack 
an  advertiser.  Her  mind  remained  quite  blank. 
Against  the  background  of  the  swaying  rose-col- 
ored curtains  picture  after  picture  rose  before  her 
vague  eyes.     But  no  idea. 

Suddenly  she  thought  of  Paul,  of  her  plan  of  go- 
ing to  Ripley,  now  demolished.  She  could  not  work 
there;  if  Paul  suspected  her  difficulty  he  would  insist 
upon  helping  her.  He  would  be  hurt  by  her  refusal, 
however  carefully  she  tried  not  to  hurt  him.     "  Oh, 


DIVERGING  ROADS  307 

you  little  idiot !  You  have  made  a  mess  of  things !  '* 
she  said. 

Half- formed  thoughts  began  to  scamper  franti- 
cally through  her  mind.  This  was  no  way  to  face  a 
problem,  she  knew.  She  would  think  no  more 
about  it  until  to-morrow.  Smiling  a  little,  she  began 
a  letter  to  Paul,  a  long,  whimsical  letter,  warmed 
with  tenderness,  saying  nothing  and  saying  it  charm- 
ingly. An  hour  later,  rereading  it  and  finding  it 
good,  she  folded  it  into  its  envelope  and  put  a  tiny 
kiss  upon  the  flap,  smiling  at  herself. 

Lest  her  perplexities  come  back  to  break  the  con- 
tentment of  her  mood,  she  barricaded  herself  against 
the  silence  of  the  house  with  a  magazine.  It  was 
the  "  Pacific  Coast,"  a  San  Francisco  publication  of 
particular  interest  to  her  because  of  its  articles  on. 
California  land.  She  had  once  wished  to  write  a 
series  of  reading-matter  advertisements  to  be  printed 
in  it,  but  Clark  had  overruled  her  idea,  favoring 
display  type. 

She  was  buried  in  a  story  of  the  western  mining 
camps  when  from  the  blank  depths  of  her  mind  the 
idea  she  had  wanted  sprang  with  the  suddenness 
of  an  explosion.  What  chance  contact  of  buried 
memories  had  produced  it  she  could  not  tell,  but 
there  it  was.  As  she  considered  it,  it  appeared  now 
commonplace  and  worthless,  now  scintillating  with 
bright  possibilities.  In  the  end,  composing  herself 
to  sleep  on  the  star-lit  porch,  she  decided  to  test  it. 


3o8  DIVERGING  ROADS 

Early  the  next  afternoon  she  arrived  at  the  San 
Francisco  offices  of  the  *'  Pacific  Coast "  and  asked 
to  speak  to  the  circulation  manager. 

She  was  impressed  by  the  atmosphere  of  dignity 
and  restraint  in  the  large,  bland  offices.  Sunshine 
streamed  through  big  windows  over  tidy  desks  and 
filing-cabinets;  girls  moved  about  quietly,  carrying 
sheaves  of  typewritten  matter  in  smooth,  ringless 
hands;  even  the  click  of  typewriters  was  subdued, 
like  the  sound  of  well-bred  voices.  Her  experi- 
ences of  newspaper  offices  had  not  prepared  her  for 
this,  and  her  pulses  quickened  at  this  glimpse  of  a 
strange,  uncharted  world. 

The  circulation  manager  was  a  disappointment. 
He  was  young,  and  desirous  of  concealing  the  fact. 
His  manner,  a  shade  too  assertive,  betrayed  sup- 
pressed self -distrust;  being  doubtful  of  his  own  abil- 
ity he  sought  to  reassure  himself  by  convincing  oth- 
er^ of  it.  Had  she  been  selling  him  land,  she 
would  have  played  upon  this  shaky  egotism,  but 
here  the  weapon  turned  against  her.  He  was  pre- 
pared to  demonstrate  his  efficiency  by  swiftly  dis- 
missing her. 

Drawing  upon  all  her  resources  of  salesmanship, 
she  presented  her  plan.  She  wished  to  organize 
a  crew  of  subscription  solicitors  and  cover  the  state, 
section  by  section.  She  would  interview  chambers 
of  commerce,  boards  of  trade,  business  men,  and 
farmers,  gathering  material  for  an  article  on  local 


DIVERGING  ROADS  309 

conditions;  she  would  get  free  publicity  from  the 
newspapers;  she  would  stimulate  interest  in  the 
"  Pacific  Coast." 

"  Every  one  likes  to  read  about  himself,  and  next 
he  likes  to  read  about  his  town.  I  will  see  that 
every  man  and  woman  in  the  territory  knows  that 
the  *'  Pacific  Coast "  will  run  articles  about  his  own 
local  interests.  Then  the  solicitors  will  come  along 
and  take  his  subscription.  The  solicitors  will  work 
on  commission;  the  only  expense  will  be  my  salary 
and  the  cost  of  writing  the  articles.  And  the  arti- 
cles will  be  good  magazine  features,  in  addition  to 
their  circulation  value." 

His  smile  was  pityingly  superior. 

*'  My  dear  young  lady,  if  I  used  our  columns  for 
schemes  like  that !  "  She  perceived  that  she  had 
encountered  a  system  of  ethics  unknown  to  her. 
"  We  are  not  running  a  cheap  booster's  magazine, 
angling  for  subscriptions."  And  he  pointed  out 
that  every  article  must  interest  a  hundred  thousand 
subscribers,  while  an  article  on  one  section  of  the 
state  appealed  only  to  the  local  interest.  The  talk 
became  an  argument  on  this  point. 

*'  But  towns  have  characters,  like  people.  Every 
town  in  California  is  full  of  stories,  atmosphere, 
romance,  color.  Why,  you  could  n't  write  the  char- 
acter of  one  of  them  without  interesting  every 
reader  of  your  magazine !  " 

He  ended  the  interview  with  a  challenge. 


3IO  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  Well,  you  bring  me  one  article  that  will  pass 
one  of  our  readers  and  I  may  consider  the  scheme." 
He  turned  to  a  pile  of  letters,  and  his  gesture  indi- 
cated his  satisfaction  in  dismissing  her  so  neatly 
and  finally. 

It  left  a  sting  that  pricked  her  pride  and  made  her 
nerves  tingle.  She  was  passed  outward  through  the 
suave  atmosphere  of  the  offices,  and  every  shining 
wood  surface  aflfected  her  like  a  smile  of  conscious 
superiority. 

She  went  to  see  Mr.  Clark,  who  welcomed  her 
with  regrets  that  she  had  left  the  organization,  and 
at  her  suggestion  readily  promised  her  a  place  in  his 
office  at  a  moderate  salary.  But  to  take  it  seemed 
a  self-confession  of  failure.  Mr.  Clark's  offer  was 
left  open,  and  she  returned  to  San  Jose  smarting 
with  resentful  humiliation. 

The  sun  was  low  when  she  alighted  at  the  station. 
Amber-colored  light  lay  over  the  green  of  St.  James 
Park,  and  the  long  street  beyond  glowed  with  the 
dull,  warm  tone  of  weathered  brick.  The  tall  win- 
dows and  gabled  roofs  of  the  old  business  blocks 
threw  back  the  flames  of  the  level  sun-rays.  In 
the  gray  light  below  them  the  bell  of  El  Camino  Real 
stood  voiceless  at  the  corner  of  the  old  Alameda 
beside  a  red  fire-alarm  box,  and  around  it  scores  of 
farmers'  automobiles  fringed  the  wide  cement  side- 
walks. 

Here,  within  the  memory  of  men  yet  living,  fields 


DIVERGING  ROADS  311 

of  wild  mustard  had  hidden  hundreds  of  grazing  cat- 
tle and  vaqueros,  riding  down  to  them  from  the 
foot-hills,  had  vanished  in  seas  of  yellow  bloom; 
here  the  padres  had  trudged  patiently  on  the  road 
from  Santa  Clara  to  Mission  San  Jose;  here  pioneers 
had  broken  the  raw  soil  and  lined  the  cup  of  the  val- 
ley with  golden  wheat  fields,  and  Blaine  had  come  in 
the  heyday  of  his  popularity,  counseling  orchards. 

Now,  mile  after  mile  to  the  edge  of  the  blue 
hills,  prune-trees  and  apricots  and  cherries  stood  in 
trim  rows,  smooth  boulevards  hummed  with  the 
passing  of  motor-cars,  and  where  the  vaqueros  had 
broken  the  wild  mustard,  San  Jose  stood,  the  throb- 
bing heart  of  all  these  arteries  reaching  into  past  and 
present  and  future. 

'*  And  he  says  there's  nothing  of  interest  here !  " 
she  cried.  "Oh,  if  only  I  could  write  it!  If  I 
could  write  one  tenth  of  it !  " 

Midnight  found  her  sitting  before  her  typewriter, 
disheveled,  hot-eyed,  surrounded  by  crumpled  sheets 
of  paper,  pondering  over  sentences,  discarding  para- 
graphs, by  turns  glowing  with  satisfaction  and 
chilled  by  hopelessness.  "  I  could  write  an  adver- 
tisement about  it,"  she  thought.  "  I  could  interest 
a  buyer.  Magazine  articles  are  different.  But 
human  beings  are  all  alike.  Interest  them.  I  Ve 
got  to  interest  them.  If  I  can  just  make  it  human, 
make  them  see —  Oh,  what  an  idiot  that  man 
was ! "     Absorbed  in  her  attempt  to  express  the 


312  DIVERGING  ROADS 

spirit  of  San  Jose,  she  still  felt  burning  within  her  a 
rage  against  him.  "  I  '11  show  him,  anyway,  that 
there  are  some  things  he  does  n't  see!  " 

Next  morning  she  read  her  work  and  found  it 
worthless. 

*'*  I  '11  write  it  like  a  letter,"  she  thought,  and  pages 
poured  easily  from  the  typewriter.  She  spent  the 
next  day  slashing  black  pencil-marks  through  para- 
graphs, shifting  sentences,  altering  words.  The 
intricacy  of  the  work  fascinated  her;  it  allured  like 
an  embroidery  pattern,  challenged  like  a  land  sale, 
roused  all  her  energies. 

When  she  could  do  no  more,  she  read  and  re-read 
the  finished  article.  She  thought  it  hopelessly 
stupid ;  she  thought  it  as  good  as  some  she  had  read ; 
a  sentence  glinted  at  her  like  a  ray  of  light,  and  again 
it  faded  into  insignificance.  She  did  not  know  what 
she  thought  about  it.  The  memory  of  that  irritating 
young  man  decided  her.  "  It  may  be  done  absurdly, 
but  it  will  prove  my  point.  There  is  something  here 
to  write  about."     She  sent  it  to  him. 

After  five  empty  days,  during  which  she  struggled 
in  a  chaos  of  indecisions,  she  tore  open  an  envelope 
with  the  "  Pacific  Coast  "  imprint.  "  Perhaps  that 
plan  will  go  through,  after  all,"  she  thought.  She 
read  a  note  asking  her  to  call,  a  note  signed  "  A.  C. 
Hayden,  Editor." 

The  next  afternoon  she  was  in  his  office.  It  was 
a  quiet  room,  lined  with  filled  bookcases,  furnished 


DIVERGING  ROADS  313 

with  comfortablet  chairs  and  a  huge  table  loaded  with 
proofs  and  manuscripts  piled  in  orderly  disorder. 
Mr.  Hayden  himself  gave  the  same  impression  of 
leisurely  efficiency;  Helen  felt  that  he  accomplished 
a  great  deal  of  work  without  haste,  smiling.  He 
was  not  hurried ;  he  was  quite  willing  to  discuss  her 
circulation  scheme,  listening  sympathetically,  point- 
ing out  the  reasons  why  it  was  not  advisable.  Her 
article  lay  on  the  desk.  It  had  brought  her  a  pleasant 
interview.  After  all,  there  was  no  reason  why  she 
should  not  accept  Clark's  offer. 

"  Now  this,"  Mr.  Hayden  said,  unfolding  her 
manuscript.  "  We  can  use  this,  simply  as  a  story, 
if  you  want  to  sell  it  to  us.  With  the  right  illustra- 
tions and  a  few  changes  it  will  make  a  very  good 
feature.  Our  rates,  of  course — "  Helen  had 
made  no  sound,  but  some  quality  in  her  breathless 
silence  interrupted  him.  He  looked  at  her  question- 
ingly. 

"  You  don't  mean  —  I  can  write?  " 

He  was  amused. 

"  People  do,  you  know.  In  fact,  most  people  do 
—  or  try.  You  'd  realize  that  if  you  were  a  maga- 
zine editor.     Have  you  never  written  before?  " 

"  Well  —  reader  advertisements  and  letters,  of 
course.  I  have  n't  thought  of  really  writing,  not 
since  I  was  a  school  girl."     She  was  dazzled. 

"  Advertisement !  That  accounts  for  it.  You 
cramp  your  style  here  and  there.     But  you  can  write. 


314  DIVERGING  ROADS 

You  have  an  original  viewpoint;  you  write  with  a 
sense  of  direction,  and  you  pack  in  human  interest 
—  human  interest  *s  always  good.  And  you  know 
the  values  of  words." 

*'  When  you  're  paying  three  dollars  and  eighty 
cents  an  inch  for  space  you  do  think  about  them ! " 
she  laughed.  His  words  revealed  the  unmeasured 
stretches  of  her  ignorance  in  this  new  field,  but  the 
blood  throbbed  in  her  temples.  Her  mind  became 
a  whirl  of  ideas ;  she  saw  the  world  as  a  gold  mine, 
crammed  with  things  to  write  about.  Eagerly  at- 
tentive, she  listened  to  Mr.  Hayden's  criticisms  of 
the  manuscript. 

Her  lead  was  too  long.  "  You  spar  around  be- 
fore you  get  to  the  point.  The  story  really  begins 
here."  His  pencil  hovered  over  the  page.  "If  you 
don't  object  to  our  making  changes?  " 

"  Oh,  please  do !     I  want  to  learn." 

An  hour  went  by,  and  another.  Mr.  Hayden 
•was  interested  in  her  opinions  on  all  subjects;  he 
led  her  to  talk  of  land  selling,  of  advertising,  of  the 
many  parts  of  California  that  she  knew.  He  sug- 
gested a  series  of  articles  similar  to  the  one  he  held 
in  his  hand.  He  would  be  glad  to  consider  them  if 
she  would  write  them.  If  she  had  other  ideas, 
would  she  submit  them? 

She  left  the  office  with  a  check  in  her  purse,  and 
her  mind  was  filled  with  rainbow  visions.  She  saw 
a  story  in  every  newsboy  she  met,  ideas  clothed  with 


DIVERGING  ROADS  315 

romance  and  color  jostled  each  other  for  place  in  her 
mind,  and  the  world  seemed  a  whirling  ball  beneath 
her  feet.  For  the  first  time  since  the  interview  with 
MacAdams  she  longed  to  rush  to  Paul,  to  share 
with  him  her  glittering  visions. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

PAUL  was  aggrieved.  He  stood  in  the  dis- 
mantled living-room  of  the  little  bungalow, 
struggling  between  forbearance  and  a  sense  of  the 
justice  of  his  grievance.  "  But  look  here!  "  he  said 
for  the  hundredth  time,  "  why  could  n't  you  let  a  fel- 
low know?  If  I  'd  had  a  chance  to  show  you  how 
unreasonable,  how  unnecessary  — "  He  thrust  his 
hands  deep  into  his  coat-pockets  and  walked  moodily 
up  and  down  between  the  big  trunk  and  the  two 
bulging  suitcases  that  stood  on  the  bare  floor. 

Helen,  drooping  wearily  on  one  of  the  suitcases, 
contritely  searched  her  mind  for  a  reply.  It  was 
bewildering  not  to  find  one.  On  all  other  points  of 
the  discussion  her  reasons  were  clear  and  to  her  con- 
vincing. But  surely  she  should  have  informed  him 
of  her  plans.  He  had  never  for  a  moment  been  for- 
gotten; the  knowledge  of  him  continually  glowed 
in  her  heart,  warming  her  even  when  her  thoughts 
were  furthest  from  him. 

She  could  not  understand  the  disassociation  of 
ideas  that  had  caused  this  apparent  neglect  of  him. 
There  was  no  defense  against  her  self-accusation. 

"  I  'm  terribly  sorry,"  she  murmured  inadequately. 
316 


DIVERGING  ROADS  317 

He  had  already  passed  over  the  point,  beginning 
again  the  circHng  argument  that  had  occupied  them 
since  his  unexpected  arrival. 

"  Can't  you  see,  dear,  there  's  no  reason  under  the 
sun  for  a  move  like  this  ?  You  '11  no  more  than  get 
settled  in  the  city  before  — "  His  moodiness  van- 
ished. "  Oh,  come  on,  sweetheart !  Chuck  the 
whole  thing.  Come  on  down  to  Ripley.  It 's  only 
for  a  little  while.  Why  should  you  care  so  much 
about  a  little  money?  You'll  have  to  get  used  to 
my  paying  the  bills  some  time,  you  know ;  it  might 
as  well  be  now.  No?  Yes!"  His  arm  was 
around  her  shoulders,  and  she  smiled  up  into  his 
coaxing,  humorous  eyes. 

"  You  're  a  dear !  No,  but  seriously,  Paul,  not 
yet.  It 's  all  arranged  —  the  "  Pacific  Coast  "  is 
counting  on  me,  and  I  've  got  the  new  series  started 
in  the  "  Post."  Just  think  of  all  the  working  girls 
you  'd  rob  of  oodles  of  good  advice  that  they  won't 
follow!  Please  don't  feel  so  badly,  dear."  Her 
voice  deepened.  "  I  '11  tell  you  the  real  reason  I 
want  to  go.  If  I  can  get  really  started,  if  T  can  get 
my  name  pretty  well  known  —  A  name  in  this 
writing  game,  you  know,  is  just  like  a  trade-mark. 
It 's  established  by  advertising.  Well,  if  I  can  do 
that,  I  can  keep  on  writing  wherever  I  am,  even  in 
Ripley.  And  then  I  '11  have  something  to  do  and  a 
little  income.  I  —  I  would  like  that.  Don't  you 
see  how  beautiful  it  would  be?  " 


3i8  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  It  may  be  your  idea  of  beauti  fulness,  but  I  can't 
say  I  'm  crazy  about  it,"  he  replied.  He  sat  on  the 
suitcase,  his  hands  clasped  between  his  knees,  and 
stared  glumly  at  his  boots.  "  Why  do  you  want  an 
income?     I  can  take  care  of  you." 

"Of  course!"  she  assured  him,  hastily.  **  I 
did  n't  mean  — " 

"  And  when  it  comes  to  something  to  do  — 
you  're  going  to  have  me  on  your  hands,  you 
know!  "  he  continued,  with  a  troubled  smile. 

"  I  do  believe  he  's  jealous !  "  She  laughed  coax- 
ingly,  slipping  a  hand  through  the  crook  of  his  un- 
yielding arm.  **  Are  you  jealous?  Just  as  jealous 
as  you  can  be?  Jealous  of  my  typewriter?  "  She 
bent  upon  him  a  horrific  frown.  "  Answer  to  me, 
sir!  Do  you  love  that  electric  plant?  How  dare 
you  look  at  dynamos !  " 

He  surrendered,  laughing  with  her. 

"You  little  idiot!  Just  the  same  —  oh,  well, 
what 's  the  use  ?    Just  so  you  're  happy." 

It  was  the  first  time  there  had  been  a  sense  of 
reservations  behind  their  kiss.  But  he  seemed  not 
to  know  it,  radiating  content. 

"  All  right,  run  along  and  play  in  San  Francisco. 
I  don't  care.  I  do  care.  I  do  care  like  the  devil. 
But  it  won't  be  long.  Only  I  warn  you,  I  'm  not 
going  to  be  called  Mr.  Helen  Davies !  " 

She  laughed  too,  rising  and  tucking  up  her 
hair. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  319 

'*  As  if  I  wanted  you  to  be !  I  '11  never  be  so  well- 
known  as  that,  don't  fear!  Now  if  I  were  a  real 
writer — "  The  trace  of  wistfulness  in  her  voice 
was  quickly  repressed.  "  Then,  young  man,  you  'd 
have  reason  to  worry!  But  I  'm  not.  1  wonder  if 
that  expressman  's  never  coming!  " 

*'  You  ought  n't  to  be  trying  to  manage  all  this 
yourself,"  he  said.  "  I  wish  I  'd  known  in  time. 
I  could  have  come  up  and  done  it  for  you.'* 

She  was  touched  by  his  whole-hearted  acceptance 
of  her  plans,  and  she  felt  a  twinge  of  regret,  a  long- 
ing to  acquiesce  in  his.  But  some  strong  force 
within  herself  would  not  yield.  She  could  not  be 
dependent  upon  him,  not  yet.  Later  —  later  she 
would  feel  differently. 

There  were  six  months  between  her  and  final  legal 
freedom.  The  miserable  half  hour  that  had  given 
her  an  interlocutory  decree  of  divorce  had  been 
buried  by  the  rush  of  new  events;  routine  comple- 
tion of  the  court's  action  had  no  vital  meaning  for 
her.  She  had  in  reality  been  long  divorced  from 
the  past  she  wished  to  forget.  The  date  six  months 
in  the  future  meant  only  the  point  at  which  she 
would  face  the  details  of  a  new  life.  Until  that 
time  she  need  not  consider  them  too  closely.  It  was 
enough  to  know  that  she  and  Paul  loved  each  other. 
All  difficulties  when  she  reached  them  would  be  con- 
quered by  that  love. 

She  turned  a  bright  face  to  him. 


320  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  Let 's  go  out  and  walk  in  the  sunshine.  An 
empty  house  is  so  sorrowful.  And  I  have  heaps  of 
things  to  tell  you." 

They  walked  slowly  up  and  down  the  pleasant 
tree-shaded  street,  passing  the  homelike  porches  at 
which  she  no  longer  looked  wistfully.  Her  mind 
was  filled  with  the  immediate,  intoxicating  future, 
and  she  tumbled  out  for  Paul's  inspection  all  her  an- 
ticipations. 

Mr.  Hayden  had  refused  her  last  story,  about  im- 
migration conditions  on  Angel  Island,  and  she  had 
sent  it  to  an  Eastern  weekly.  Would  n't  it  be  splen- 
did if  they  took  it !  And  was  n't  it  a  bit  of  luck,  get- 
ting the  "  Post's  "  city  editor  to  take  her  idea  of  a 
department  for  working-girls'  problems? 

And  the  new  series  —  the  series  that  was  taking 
her  to  San  Francisco.  "  O  Paul,  if  I  can  only  do 
it  half  as  well  as  I  want  to !  I  'm  just  sure  Mr. 
Hayden  would  take  it.  *  San  Francisco  Nights.' 
Bagdad-y  stuff,  you  know,  Arabian  Nights. 
You  've  no  idea  how  fascinating  San  Francisco  is  at 
night.  The  fishing  fleet,  going  out  from  Fisher- 
man's Wharf  over  the  black  water,  with  Alcatraz 
Light  flashing  across  the  colored  boats,  and  the  fish- 
ermen singing  '  II  Trovatore.'  Honestly,  Paul,  they 
do.  And  the  vegetable  markets,  down  in  the  still, 
ghostly,  wholesale  district  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  masses  of  color  and  light,  the  Italian 
farmers  with  their  blue  jackets  and  red  caps,  and 


DIVERGING  ROADS  321 

the  huge,  sleepy  horses,  and  the  Chinese  peddlers 
pawing  over  the  vegetables,  with  their  long,  yellow 
fingers." 

"  At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning !  You  don't 
mean  you  're  dreaming  of  going  down  there?  " 

''  I  've  already  been,"  she  said  guiltily.  "  With 
one  of  the  girls,  Marian  Marcy.  I  told  you  about 
her  last  week.  The  girl  on  the  **  Post,"  you 
know?" 

"  Well,  I  hope  at  least  you  had  a  policeman  with 
you." 

*'  Naturally  one  would  have,"  she  replied  diplo- 
matically. Absorbed  in  the  interest  of  these  new 
experiences,  she  had  not  thought  of  being  fearful; 
without  considering  the  question,  she  had  felt  quite 
capable  of  meeting  any  probable  situation.  But  she 
perceived  that  she  was  alarming  Paul. 

It  seemed  safer  to  discuss  the  little  house  she  had 
rented,  the  little  house  that  hung  like  a  swallow's 
nest  on  the  steep  slopes  of  Russian  Hill,  overlooking 
the  islands  of  the  bay  and  the  blue  Marin  hills. 
Eager  to  take  Paul's  imagination  with  her,  she  de- 
scribed it  minutely,  its  wood-paneled  walls,  its  great 
windows,  the  fireplace,  the  kitchenette  where  they 
would  cook  supper  together  when  he  came  to  see  her. 

"And  you'll  come  often?  Every  week?"  she 
urged. 

**  You  '11  see  me  spending  the  new  parlor  wall- 
paper for  railroad  fares !  "  he  promised. 


322  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  Just  as  well.  I  don't  want  wall-paper  there, 
anyway !  " 

When  the  expressman  had  come  and  gone,  she 
locked  the  door  of  the  bungalow  for  the  last  time, 
with  a  sense  of  efficient  accomplishment. 

"Now!"  she  said,  "We'll  play  until  time  for 
the  very  latest  train  for  San  Francisco." 

Their  delight  in  each  other  seemed  all  the  brighter 
for  the  temporary  disagreement,  like  sunshine  after 
a  foggy  morning.  Her  heart  ached  when  the  even- 
ing ended  and  he  had  to  put  her  on  the  train. 

"  I  '11  be  glad  when  I  'm  not  saying  good-by  to  you 
all  the  time !  "  he  told  her  almost  fiercely. 

"Oh,  so  will  I!" 

She  sprang  lightly  up  the  car  steps,  seeing  too 
late  his  effort  to  help  her,  and  regret  increased  the 
warmth  of  her  thanks  while  he  settled  her  bags  in 
the  rack,  hung  up  her  coat,  adjusted  the  footstool  for 
her.  These  unaccustomed  services  embarrassed  her 
a  little.  She  was  aware  of  awkwardness  in  accept- 
ing them,  but  for  a  little  while  longer  they  kept  him 
near  her. 

He  lingered  until  the  last  minute,  leaning  over  the 
red  plush  seat,  jostled  by  incoming  passengers,  gaz- 
ing at  her  with  eyes  that  said  more  than  lips  or  hands 
dared  express  under  the  harsh  lights  and  glances  of 
passengers. 

"Well  — good-by." 


DIVERGING  ROADS  323 

"  Good-by.  And  you  '11  come  to  see  the  new 
house  soon  ?  " 

She  watched  his  sturdy  back  disappear  through 
the  car-door.  Her  fancy  saw  the  sure,  quick  motion 
with  which  he  would  fling  himself  from  the  moving 
train,  and  with  her  face  close  against  the  jarring 
pane,  she  caught  a  last  gHmpse  of  his  eager  face 
and  waving  hat  beneath  the  station  lights. 

Smiling,  she  saw  the  street  lamps  flash  past, 
vanish.  Against  rushing  blackness  the  shining 
window  reflected  her  own  firm  mouth,  the  strong 
curve  of  her  cheek,  the  crisp  line  of  the  small  hat. 
The  swaying  motion  of  a  train  always  delighted 
her;  she  hked  the  sensation  of  departure,  and  the 
innumerable  small  creakings,  the  quickening  click- 
click-click  of  the  wheels,  gave  her  the  feeling  of 
being  flung  through  space  toward  an  unknown 
future.  Her  cheek  against  the  cool  pane,  she  shut 
out  the  shimmering  lights  and  gazed  into  vague 
darkness. 

Her  heart  was  warm  with  contentment;  her  love 
for  Paul  lay  in  it  like  a  hidden  warmth.  She 
thought  of  the  articles  she  meant  to  write,  of  the 
brown  cottage  on  Russian  Hill,  of  the  little  group 
of  women  she  might  gather  there,  Marian  Marcy's 
friends.  With  something  of  wistful  envy  she 
thought  of  the  affection  that  held  them  together; 
she  hoped  they  would  like  her,  too.     The  friendship 


324  DIVERGING  ROADS 

of  women  was  a  new  thing  to  her,  and  the  bond  she 
had  glimpsed  among  these  girls  appeared  to  her 
special  and  beautiful. 

Wondering,  she  considered  them  one  by  one,  so 
widely  differing  in  temperament  and  character,  and 
yet  so  harmonious  beneath  their  heated  arguments. 
One  would  say  they  quarreled  at  the  luncheon  table 
where  they  met  daily,  flinging  pointed  epigrams  and 
sharp  retorts  at  each  other,  growing  excited  over 
most  incongruous  subjects, —  the  war,  poems, 
biology,  hairdressers, —  arguing,  laughing,  teasing 
each  other  all  in  a  breath.  But  their  good  humor 
never  failed,  and  affection  for  each  other  burned 
like  an  unflickering  candle  flame  in  all  their  gusts 
of  controversy. 

"  It 's  a  wonderful  crowd,"  Marian  Marcy  had 
said  inclusively,  and  Helen  knew  that  her  invitation 
to  lunch  with  them  indicated  genuine  liking.  A 
stranger  among  them,  she  felt  herself  on  trial,  and 
a  hope  of  gathering  them  all  at  her  fireside  and  per- 
haps becoming  one  of  their  warm  circle  had  been 
her  strongest  motive  in  taking  the  cottage. 

Her  days  were  full  of  work.  With  a  kind  of  fury 
she  threw  herself  into  the  task  of  conquering  the 
strange  world  before  her.  There  was  so  much  to 
learn  and  so  very  little  time.  Her  six  months  be- 
came a  small  hoard  of  hours,  every  minute  precious. 
In  the  earliest  dawn,  while  the  sky  over  the  Berkeley 
hills  blushed  faintly  and  long  silver  lines  lay  on  the 


DIVERGING  ROADS  325 

gray  waters  of  the  bay,  she  was  plunging  into  her 
cold  tub,  lighting  the  gas  beneath  the  coffee-pot, 
tidying  the  little  house.  The  morning  papers  gave 
her  ideas  for  stories, —  already  she  had  learned  to 
call  everything  written  "  a  story  " —  and  she  rode 
down  the  hill  on  the  early  cable-car  with  stenog- 
raphers and  shopgirls,  thinking  of  interviews. 

Her  business  sense,  sharply  turned  upon  maga- 
zine pages  and  Sunday  papers,  showed  her  an  ever- 
widening  market.  She  saw  scores  of  stories  on  in- 
numerable subjects ;  they  came  into  her  mind  dressed 
in  all  the  colors  of  fancy,  perfect,  clear-cut,  alive 
with  interest.  Then  at  her  typewriter  she  set  her- 
self to  make  them  live  in  words,  and  through  long 
afternoons  she  toiled,  struggling,  despairing,  seeing 
fruitless  hours  go  by,  knowing  at  last  that  she  had 
produced  a  maimed,  limping  thing.  Her  bookcases 
now  filled  her  with  awe.  All  those  volumes  so  easily 
read,  apparently  produced  so  effortlessly,  appeared 
in  this  new  light  tremendous,  almost  miraculous 
achievements. 

"  I  can  never  write  real  books,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
not  an  artist." 

She  was  not  embarking  upon  an  artistic  career; 
she  was  learning  a  trade.  But  seeing  about  her  so 
many  newspapers,  so  many  magazines,  carloads  of 
volumes  in  the  department  stores,  she  reflected  that 
it  was  a  useful  trade.  These  miles  of  printing 
brought  refreshment  and  wider  viewpoint  to  mil- 


326  DIVERGING  ROADS 

lions.  "  If  I  can  be  only  a  good  workman,  produc- 
ing sound,  wholesome,  true  things,  I  will  be  doing 
something  of  value,"  she  consoled  herself. 

Mr.  Hayden  accepted  the  first  story  in  the  "  San 
Francisco  Nights,"  series,  refused  the  second.  She 
began  on  a  third,  and  when  her  article  on  immigra- 
tion was  returned  from  the  East  she  sent  it  out 
again.  She  had  better  fortune  with  a  story  on  Cali- 
fornia farming  conditions,  which  sold  to  a  national 
farm  paper.  Establishing  a  market  for  her  work 
was  her  hope  for  the  future;  if  she  succeeded  she 
could  still  work  in  Ripley,  and  the  work  would  be 
something  entirely  her  own. 

She  did  not  analyze  this  need  to  keep  a  fragment 
of  life  apart  for  herself,  but  quite  plainly  she  saw 
the  value  of  having  her  own  small  income.  Her  re- 
lation to  Paul  had  nothing  to  do  with  money;  in 
their  love  they  were  equal,  and  when  Paul  added 
the  fruit  of  his  work  to  the  scale  the  balance  would 
be  uneven.  She  knew  too  well  the  difference  be- 
tween earning  money  and  caring  for  a  house  to  be- 
lieve that  her  tasks  would  earn  what  he  must  give 
her. 

Working  against  time,  she  poured  her  energies 
into  building  an  acquaintance  with  editors,  into 
learning  their  requirements.  Meantime  her  depart- 
ment in  the  "  Post "  gave  her  the  tiny  income  that 
met  her  expenses.  Late  at  night  she  sa'  >>pening 
letters  and  typing  prudent  replies  for  its  columns. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  327 

"  And  the  unions  are  striking  for  an  eight-hour 
day !  "  she  said  to  Marian,  encountering  her  amid 
clattering  typewriters  in  the  *'  Post's  "  local  room. 
"  Me,  I  'd  strike  for  forty-eight  hours  between  sun 
and  sun ! " 

"  '  The  best  of  all  ways  to  lengthen  your  days  is  to 
steal  a  few  hours  from  the  night,  my  dear  ' !  "  Marian 
quoted  gaily.  Her  piquant,  kitten-like  face,  with 
its  pointed  chin  and  wide  gray  eyes  beneath  a  tangle 
of  black  hair,  was  white  with  fatigue.  She  straight- 
ened her  hat,  and  dabbed  at  her  nose  with  a  powder 
puff.  "  The  crowd  's  going  over  to  the  beach  at 
Tiburon  for  a  picnic  supper.     Come  along?  " 

"I'd  love  to!" 

"  Then  run  out  and  get  some  pickles  and  things 
while  I  finish  this  story.  Mother-of -Pearl!  If 
those  club  women  knew  what  I  really  think  of  most 
of  'em ! "  The  typewriter  keys  clacked  viciously 
under  her  flying  fingers. 

Smiling,  Helen  obeyed,  and  while  she  explored 
a  delicatessen  and  loaded  her  arms  with  packages, 
she  felt  a  flutter  of  pleased  anticipation.  It  would 
be  good  to  lie  on  the  beach  under  the  stars  and  listen 
to  more  of  the  curious  talk  of  these  girls.  "  But  I 
must  contribute  something,"  she  thought.  "  I  must 
make  them  like  me  if  I  can." 

When  they  assembled  at  the  ferry,  however,  she 
found  t1  they  were  not  inclined  to  talk.  Almost 
silently   they   waited   for  the  big  gates  to  open, 


328  DIVERGING  ROADS 

surged  with  the  crowd  across  the  gang-plank  and 
found  outside  seats  where  the  salt  winds  swept  upon 
them. 

"  Tired,  Marian  ?  "  said  Anne  Lester. 

"  Dead !  "  Marian  answered.  She  rearranged  the 
packages,  took  off  her  coat,  put  it  on  again,  and 
began  to  walk  restlessly  up  and  down  the  deck. 

"  She  lives  on  sheer  nerve,"  Anne  remarked. 
"  Never  relaxes."  Her  own  long,  thoroughbred 
body  was  a  picture  of  reposeful  lines.  She  said 
nothing  more. 

**  How  beautifully  they  let  each  other  alone!*' 
Helen  thought,  and  in  the  restful  silence  she  too  re- 
laxed, idly  studying  the  others.  They  all  worked. 
Beyond  that  she  could  see  nothing  in  common ;  even 
their  occupations  differed  widely.  She  checked 
them  off,  starded  a  little  at  the  incongruity. 

Anne,  high-bred,  imperious,  with  something  of 
untamed  freedom  in  every  gesture  —  Anne  was  a 
teacher  of  economics !  Beside  her  Willetta,  demure, 
brown-eyed,  brown-haired,  knitting  busily,  had 
come  from  unknown  labors  in  social  service  work. 
Across  the  aisle  Sara  and  Mrs.  Austin  —  they  called 
her  Dodo  —  were  discussing  samples  of  silk.  And 
Sara  was  a  miniature  painter,  Dodo  executive  secre- 
tary of  an  important  California  commission. 

"  I  give  it  up !  "  Helen  said  to  herself,  marvelling 
again  at  the  obvious  affection  that  held  them  to- 
gether.    Turning  her  face  to  the  keen  cool  wind 


DIVERGING  ROADS  329 

blowing  in  through  the  Golden  Gate  she  watched  the 
thousand  white-capped  waves  upon  the  bay  and  the 
flight  of  silvery-gray  seagulls  against  a  glowing  sun- 
set sky,  drinking  in  the  beauty  of  it  all  without 
thinking,  letting  the  day's  burden  of  effort  slip  fromr 
her. 

Around  the  camp-fire  on  the  white  half-moon  of 
beach  beyond  the  fisherman's  village  of  Tiburon 
the  talk  awoke  again,  idle  talk,  flippant,  serious, 
bantering,  dropping  now  and  then  into  silence. 

Sara  sat  on  a  bit  of  driftwood,  her  long,  sensitive 
hands  clasped  around  her  knees,  her  eyes  full  of 
dreams.  **  How  beautiful  it  is! "  she  said  at  inter- 
vals, lifting  her  face  to  the  dark  sky  full  of  stars, 
or  indicating  with  a  nod  the  lights  flung  over  the 
Berkeley  hills  like  handfuls  of  jewels.  Anne, 
stretched  on  the  sand,  spoke  with  passion  of  labor 
unions  and  I.  W.  W.'s,  of  strikes  and  lockouts,  and 
the  red  glimmer  of  her  cigarette  sketched  her 
gestures  upon  the  darkness.  Argument  raged  be- 
tween her  and  Dodo,  cross-legged  like  a  boy,  her 
fine,  soft  hair  let  down  upon  her  shoulders.  Hot 
words  were  exchanged.  "  Oh,  you  don't  know  what 
you're — "  "If  you'd  read  the  reports  of  your 
own  commission !  "  "  Let  me  tell  you,  Anne  Lester, 
—  where  are  the  matches  ?  "  The  twinkling  flame 
lighted  Dodo's  calm,  unruffled  brow  as  a  thin  curl 
of  smoke  came  from  her  serious  lips.  "  Just  let 
me  tell  you,  Anne  Lester  — "     In  the  circle  of  fire- 


330  DIVERGING  ROADS 

light  Marian  was  busily  gathering  up  paper  napkins, 
bits  of  string,  wrapping  paper.  "  Marian  's  got  to 
tidy  the  whole  sea-shore !  "  they  laughed,  reaching 
lazily  to  help  her.  After  a  long  silence  they  spoke 
of  the  war. 

"  It  did  n't  get  me  so  much  at  first  —  it  was  like 
an  earthquake  shock.  But  lately  — "  "  One  feels 
like  doing  something.  I  know.  What  is  a  little 
Red  Cross  work  here  at  home,  when  you  think  — " 

"  Oh,  it 's  all  too  horrible !  "  Sara  cried. 

"  Yes.  But  lots  of  things  are  horrible.  War 
is  n't  the  worst  one.  One  has  to  — "  "  Yes,  get 
up  and  face  them.  And  do  something.  As  much 
as  you  can." 

The  words  echoed  Helen's  own  feeling.  In  the 
folds  of  her  coat,  curled  against  a  drift  log,  she 
listened,  quiet,  adding  a  word  occasionally.  She 
felt  now  the  charm  of  this  companionship,  demand- 
ing nothing,  unconstrained,  full  of  understanding. 
It  was  freedom,  relaxation,  without  loneliness. 
Like  a  plant  kept  too  long  in  constricting  soil  and 
now  transplanted  to  friendlier  earth,  she  felt  stirring 
within  her  innumerable  impulses  reaching  out  for 
nourishment. 

"  You  know,"  said  Dodo  suddenly,  putting  a 
warm  hand  over  Helen's.     "  I  like  you." 

Helen  flushed  with  delight. 

''  I  like  you  too." 


DIVERGING  ROADS  331 

She  remembered  the  words  for  long  months,  re- 
membered the  glow  of  fire-light,  the  white,  curving 
line  of  foam  on  the  sand,  the  far  Hghts  scattered 
on  a  dozen  hills,  and  the  cool  darkness  over  the  bay. 
That  evening  had  made  her  one  of  the  group,  given 
her  the  freedom  of  the  luncheon  table  reserved  for 
them  in  the  quiet  little  restaurant,  opened  for  her 
the  door  of  a  new  and  satisfying  relationship. 

She  could  always  find  one  or  two  of  the  girls  at 
the  table,  rarely  all  of  them.  They  dropped  in  when 
they  pleased,  sure  of  finding  a  friend  and  sympa- 
thetic talk.  When  she  had  an  idle  half  hour  after 
luncheon  she  might  go  shopping  with  Willetta,  al- 
ways hunting  bargains  in  dainty  things  for  the  little 
daughter  in  a  convent.  She  learned  the  tragedy 
that  had  shattered  Willetta's  home,  and  the  reason 
for  the  cynicism  that  sometimes  sharpened  Dodo's 
tongue.  If  they  wondered  about  her  own  life  they 
asked  no  questions,  and  they  accepted  Paul's  Sun- 
day visits  without  comment. 

Any  other  evening  in  the  week  might  see  Willetta 
running  up  the  steps,  knitting  in  hand,  to  spend  an 
hour  curled  among  the  cushions  on  the  hearth  or  to 
depart  blithely  if  Helen  were  busy.  Dodo's  voice 
might  come  over  the  telephone.  "  Tickets  for  the 
concert!  Want  to  come  down?"  The  crackling 
fire  might  blaze  upon  them  all,  gathered  by  chance, 
chattering  like  school-girls  while  Marian  speared 


332  DIVERGING  ROADS 

marshmallows  with  a  hat-pin,  toasting  them  and  her 
tired,  sparkling  face  at  the  same  time.  But  Sunday 
found  Helen  tacitly  left  to  Paul. 

His  unexpected  coming  upon  the  whole  group 
broke  ever  so  slightly  the  charm  of  their  companion- 
ship. She  had  felt  the  same  thing  in  entering  her 
office  when  all  the  salesmen  were  there.  Some  in- 
tangible current  of  sympathy  was  cut,  an  alien  ele- 
ment-introduced. One  thought  before  speaking,  as 
if  to  a  stranger  who  did  not  perfectly  comprehend 
the  language. 

"  There  is  a  subtle  division  between  men  and 
women,"  she  thought,  talking  brightly  to  Paul  while 
they  climbed  Tamalpais  together  or  wandered  in  Gol- 
den Gate  park.  "  Each  of  us  has  his  own  world." 
After  a  silence,  passing  some  odd  figure  on  the  trail 
or  struck  breathless  by  a  vista  of  heart-stopping 
beauty,  she  sought  his  eyes  for  the  flash  of  intimate 
understanding  she  expected,  and  found  only  adora- 
tion or  surprise. 

She  felt  that  the  shortening  summer  was  rushing 
her  toward  a  fate  against  which  some  blind  impulse 
in  her  struggled.  Paul's  eager  happiness,  his  plans, 
his  confident  hand  upon  her  life,  were  compulsions 
she  tried  to  accept  gladly.  She  should  be  happy,  she 
told  herself;  she  was  happy.  Searching  her  heart 
she  knew  that  she  loved  Paul.  His  coming  was  like 
sunshine  to  her;  she  loved  his  sincerity,  his  sweet, 
clean  soul,  the  light  in  his  eyes,  the  touch  of  his  hand. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  333 

When  he  went  away  her  heart  flew  after  him  like  a 
bird,  and  at  the  same  time  some  almost  imperceptible 
strain  upon  her  was  gone.  Alone  in  her  silent  house 
she  felt  herself  become  whole  again  and  free. 

"  You  're  feeling  like  a  girl  again !  "  she  told  her- 
self. The  watch  on  her  wrist  ticked  off  the  night 
hours  while  she  sat  motionless,  staring  at  the  red 
embers  of  the  fire  crumbling  to  ashes.  She  saw 
the  twilight  of  a  long-dead  summer's  day  and  a  girl 
swept  by  tides  of  emotion,  struggling  blindly  against 
them. 

But  it  was  not  Paul's  kisses  that  she  shrank  from 
now.  She  wanted  them.  She  was  no  longer  a  girl 
caught  unawares  by  love's  terrible  power  and  beauty. 
She  was  a  woman,  clear-eyed,  deliberately  choosing. 
Why,  then,  did  she  feel  that  she  was  compelling  her- 
self to  do  this  thing  that  she  wanted  to  do  ?  "  It 's 
late,  and  I  'm  tired.  I  'm  gating  all  sorts  of  wild 
fancies,"  she  said,  rising  wearily,  chilled. 

With  passionate  intensity  she  wrung  all  the  joy 
from  every  moment  of  these  happy  days.  She  loved 
the  changing  colors  of  the  bay,  the  keen,  cool  dawns 
when  she  breakfasted  alone  on  her  balcony  with  the 
morning  papers  spread  beside  her  plate  and  an  un- 
known day  stretching  before  her.  She  loved  her 
encounters  with  many  sides  of  life;  the  talk  of  the 
Italian  waiter  in  a  quaint  Latin  Quarter  cafe;  her 
curious  friendship  with  a  tiny  Chinese  mother  who 
lived  in  the  Wong  "  family  house,"  the  shadowy 


334  DIVERGING  ROADS 

corridors  of  which  were  filled  with  a  constant  whis- 
pering shuffle  of  sandaled  feet;  the  hordes  of  ragged, 
adorable  Spanish  children  who  ran  to  her  for  cakes 
when  she  climbed  the  crazy  stairs  that  were  the 
streets  of  Telegraph  Hill. 

And  there  were  evenings  at  the  Radical  Club, 
where  she  heard  strange,  stimulating  theories  con- 
tending with  stranger  ones,  and  met  Russian  revo- 
lutionists, single-taxers,  stand-pat  Marxian  social- 
ists, and  sensation  seekers  of  many  curious  varieties, 
while  next  day  at  a  decorous  luncheon  table  she 
might  listen  to  a  staid  and  prosperous  business  man 
seriously  declaring,  "  All  these  folks  that  talk  vio- 
lence —  all  those  anarchists  and  labor  men  and  high- 
waymen—  ought  to  be  strung  up  by  a  good  old- 
fashioned  vigilance  committee !  I  'm  not  a  believer 
in  violence  and  never  was,  and  hanging  's  too  good 
for  those  that  do."  The  romance  of  life  enthralled 
her,  and  she  felt  that  she  could  never  see  enough  of 
it. 

Best  of  all  she  loved  the  girls,  that  "  wonderful 
crowd  "  that  never  failed  her  when  she  wanted  com- 
panionship, and  never  intruded  when  she  wished  to 
be  alone.  In  the  evenings  when  they  gathered 
around  her  fireplace,  relaxing  from  the  strain  of  the 
day,  among  her  cushions  in  the  soft  light  of  the 
purring  flames,  talking  a  little,  silent  sometimes,  she 
was  so  happy  that  her  heart  ached. 

Sitting  on  a  cushion,  she  sewed  quietly  by  the  light 


DIVERGING  ROADS  335 

of  a  candle  at  her  shoulder.  Willetta's  knitting 
needles  clicked  rhythmically  while  she  told  a  story 
of  the  department-store  girls'  picnic;  Anne,  flung 
gracefully  on  the  hearth-rug,  kept  her  finger  between 
the  pages  of  a  '*  History  of  the  Warfare  of  Science 
and  Religion  in  Christendom,"  while  she  listened, 
and  on  the  other  side  of  the  candle  Dodo,  chin 
propped  on  hands,  and  feet  in  the  air,  obliviously 
read  Dowson,  reaching  out  a  hand  at  intervals  for  a 
piece  of  orange  Sara  was  peeling  with  slender,  fas- 
tidious fingers. 

**  Orange,  Helen?"     She  shook  her  head. 

"Girls,  just  look  what  Helen's  doing!  Isn't  it 
gorgeous?  " 

"  Too  stunning  for  anything  but  a  trousseau,'* 
Marian  commented.  "  One  of  us  '11  have  to  get 
married.  I  tell  you,  Helen,  put  it  up  as  a  consola- 
tion prize!     The  first  one  of  us  — " 

"  No  fair.  You  've  decided  on  your  Russian," 
remarked  Dodo,  turning  a  page. 

"Mother-of-pearl!  I  should  say  not!  I  don't 
know  why  I  never  seem  to  find  a  man  I  want  to 
marry  — "  she  went  on,  plaintively.  "  One  comes 
along,  and  I  think, —  well,  maybe  this  one, —  and 
then—" 

They  laughed. 

"  No,  really,  I  mean  it."  She  sat  up,  the  firelight 
on  her  pretty,  serious  face  and  fluffy  hair.  "  I  'd 
like  to  get  married.     I  want  a  lovely  home  and  chil- 


336  DIVERGING  ROADS 

dren,  as  much  as  anybody.  And  there  've  been  — 
well,  you  girls  know.  But  always  there  's  some- 
thing I  can't  stand  about  them.  Nicolai,  now  — 
he  has  just  the  kind  of  mind  I  like.  He  's  brilliant 
and  witty,  and  he  's  radical.  But  I  could  n't  live 
with  his  table  manners !  Oh,  I  know  I  ought  to  be 
above  that.  But  when  I  think, —  three  times  a  day, 
hearing  him  eat  his  soup  —  Oh,  why  don't  radical 
men  ever  have  good  table  manners ?  I'm  radical, 
and  /  have." 

"  Oh,  Marian,  you  Ve  too  funny!  " 

"  The  real  reason  you  don't  marry  is  the  reason 
none  of  us '11  marry,  except  perhaps  Sara,"  said 
Anne. 

Sara's  defensive  cry  was  covered  by  Helen's, 
"What's  that,  Anne?" 

"  Well,  what 's  the  use  ?  We  don't  need  hus- 
bands. We  need  wives.  Some  one  to  stay  at  home 
and  do  the  dishes  and  fluff  up  the  pillows  and  hold 
our  hands  when  we  come  home  tired.  And  you 
would  n't  marry  a  man  who  'd  do  it,  so  there  you 
are." 

"Oh,  rats,  Anne!" 

"  All  right.  Dodo-dear.  But  I  don't  see  you  mar- 
rying Jim." 

Dodo  sat  up,  sweeping  her  long,  fine  hair  back- 
ward over  her  shoulders. 

"Of  course  not.  Jim  's  all  right  to  play  around 
with—" 


DIVERGING  ROADS  337 

'*  But  when  it  comes  to  marrying  him  —  exactly. 
There  are  only  two  kinds  of  men,  strong  and  weak. 
You  despise  the  weak  ones,  and  you  won't  marry 
the  strong  ones." 

*'  Now  wait  a  minute !  "  she  demanded,  in  a  chorus 
of  expostulation.  **  The  one  thing  a  real  man  wants 
to  do  is  to  shelter  his  wife;  they  're  rabid  about  it. 
And  what  use  have  we  for  a  shelter?  Any  qualities 
in  us  that  needed  to  be  shielded  we  Ve  got  rid  of 
long  ago.  You  can't  fight  life  when  you  give  host- 
ages to  it.  We  've  been  fighting  in  the  open  so  long 
we  're  used  to  it  —  we  like  it.     We  — '* 

"  Like  it !  "  cried  Willetta.  "  Oh,  just  lead  me  to 
a  nice,  protective  millionaire  and  give  me  a  chance 
to  be  a  parasite.     Just  give  me  a  chance !  " 

"  Willetta  's  right,  just  the  same,"  Dodo  declared 
through  their  laughter.  *'  It 's  the  money  that 's  at 
the  root  of  it.  You  don't  want  to  marry  a  man 
you  '11  have  to  support  —  not  that  you  'd  mind  doing 
it,  but  his  self-respect  would  go  all  to  pieces  if  you 
did.  And  yet  you  can't  find  a  man  who  makes  as 
much  money  as  you  do,  who  cares  about  music  and 
poetry  and  things.  I  'm  putting  money  in  the  bank 
and  reading  Masefield.  I  don't  see  why  a  man  can't. 
But  somehow  I  've  never  run  across  a  man  who 
does." 

"  Well,  that  *s  exactly  what  I  'm  driving  at,  only 
another  angle  on  it."  Anne  persisted.  "  The 
trouble  is  that  we  're  rounded  out,  we  've  got  both 


338  DIVERGING  ROADS 

sides  of  us  more  or  less  developed.  It  all  comes 
down  to  the  point  that  we  're  self-reliant.  We 
give  ourselves  all  we  want." 

"  You  are  n't  flattering  us  a  bit,  are  you?  "  said 
Marian.  "  I  only  wish  I  did  give  myself  all  I 
want." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  're  all  talking  about,'* 
Sara  ventured  softly.  "I  should  think  —  love  — 
would  be  all  that  mattered." 

"  We  are  n't  talking  about  love,  honey.  We  're 
talking  about  marriage." 

"  But  are  n't  they  the  same  things  —  in  a  way  ?  " 

"  You  won't  say  that  when  you  've  been  married 
three  years,  child,"  said  Dodo,  with  the  bitterness 
that  recalled  her  eight-years'-old  divorce. 

"  Not  exactly  the  same  things,  I  suppose,"  Helen 
said  quickly.  "  Marriage,  I  'd  say,  is  a  partnership. 
It 's  almost  that  legally  in  California.  You  could  n't 
build  it  on  nothing  but  emotion  —  love.  You  'd 
have  to  have  more.  But  Anne,  why  can't  you  make 
a  marriage  of  two  *  rounded  out  *  personalities?  " 

"  Because  you  can't  make  any  complete  whole  of 
two  smaller  ones.  They  don't  fit  into —  Look 
here.  When  I  was  a  youngster  down  in  Santa  Clara 
we  had  two  little  pine-trees  growing  in  our  yard. 
I  was  madly  in  love  then  —  with  the  music-teacher ! 
Well,  I  used  to  look  at  those  trees.  They  grew 
closer  together,  not  an  inch  between  their  little  stems, 
and  their  branches  together  made  one  perfect  pine- 


DIVERGING  ROADS  339 

tree.  I  was  a  poetic  fool  kid.  These  trees  were  my 
idea  of  a  perfect  marriage.  I  fell  out  of  love  with 
the  music-teacher  because  he  was  so  unreasonable 
about  scales,  I  remember !  But  that 's  still  my 
notion  of  marriage,  the  ideal  of  the  old,  close,  con- 
ventional married  life.  And  —  well,  it  can't  be 
done  with  two  complete  and  separate  full-grown 
trees,  not  by  any  kind  of  transplanting." 

"  Well,  maybe  — "  The  fire  crackled  cheerfully 
in  the  silence. 

"  But  if  you  break  it  up, —  free  love  and  so  on, — 
what  are  you  going  to  do  about  children?"  said 
Marian. 

*'  Good  Lord,  I  'm  not  going  to  do  anything  about 
anything !     I  'm  only  telling  you  — " 

"  Any  one  of  us  would  make  a  splendid  mother, 
really.     We  have  so  much  to  give  — " 

"  Going  to  waste.  When  you  think  of  the  thous- 
ands of  women  — " 

"Simply  murdering  their  babies!"  cried  Wil- 
letta.  "  Not  to  mention  giving  them  nothing  in  in- 
spiration or  proper  environment." 

"  I  'm  not  so  sure  we  'd  make  good  mothers. 
Just  loving  children  and  wanting  them  does  n't  do  it. 
There  were  six  of  us  at  home,  and  1  know.  I  tell 
you,  it 's  a  question  of  sinking  yourself  in  another 
individuality,  first  the  husband  and  then  the  child. 
There  's  something  in  us  that  resists.  We  've  been 
ourselves  too  long.     We  want  to  keep  ourselves  to 


340  DIVERGING  ROADS 

ourselves.  No,  not  want  to,  exactly  —  it 's  more 
that  we  can't  help  it." 

"If  you  're  right,  Anne,  it  *s  a  poor  outlook  for 
the  race.  Think  of  all  the  women  like  us  —  thous- 
ands more  every  year  —  who  don't  have  children. 
We  're  really  the  best  type  of  women.  We  're  the 
women  that  ought  to  have  them." 

"We  are  not!"  said  Dodo.  "We're  freaks. 
We  don't  represent  the  mass  of  women.  We  go 
around  and  around  in  our  little  circles  and  think 
we  're  modern  women  because  we  make  a  lot  of 
noise.  But  we  are  n't.  We  're  of  no  importance  at 
all,  with  our  charity  boards  and  our  social  surveys 
and  our  offices.  It 's  the  girls  who  marry  in  their 
teens  —  millions  of  'em,  in  millions  of  the  little 
homes  all  over  America  —  that  really  count." 

"In  America!"  Anne  retorted.  "You  won't 
find  them  in  their  homes  any  more  in  France  or  Eng- 
land. The  girls  are  n't  marrying  in  their  teens  over 
there,  not  since  the  war.  They  're  going  to  work  — 
just  as  we  did.  They  're  going  into  business.  Al- 
ready French  women  are  increasing  the  exports  of 
France  —  increasing  them !  We  may  be  freaks, 
Dodo,  but  we  're  going  to  have  lots  of  company." 

"  It 's  interesting  —  what  the  war  will  do  to  mar- 
riage." They  were  silent  again,  gazing  with 
abstracted  eyes  at  the  opaque  wall  of  the  future. 

"  Just  the  same,"  Sara  insisted  softly,  "  You  leave 


DIVERGING  ROADS  341 

out  everything  that 's  important  when  you  leave  out 
love." 

Anne's  small  exclamation  was  half  fond  and  half 
weary. 

**  We  '11  always  have  love.  Every  one  of  us  has 
some  one  around  in  the  background,  sending  us 
flowers.  A  woman  without  a  man  who  loves  her 
feels  like  a  promissory  note  without  an  endorse- 
ment.    But  marriage !  " 

*'  And  there  's  always  the  question  —  what  is 
love?  "  Helen  roused  at  the  little  flutter  of  merri- 
ment, and  after  a  moment  she  joined  it  with  her  clear 
laugh. 

"  Why,  love  is  just  love,"  said  Sara,  bewildered. 

"  Of  course.  There  's  only  one  definition.  It 's 
something  that  is  n't  there  when  you  're  trying  to 
analyze  it.  And  every  one  of  us  would,"  said  Dodo. 
"  Give  me  an  orange,  Sara  darling,  and  tell  us  about 
the  new  pictures." 

It  was  their  last  evening  together  in  the  little 
house.  Precious  as  each  moment  of  it  was  to  Helen, 
with  the  coming  change  in  her  own  life  hanging 
over  it,  she  had  no  more  premonition  than  the  others 
of  the  events  that  would  so  soon  whirl  them  apart. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MARIAN  rushed  in  upon  them  at  luncheon 
next  day,  glowing  with  excitement,  to  an- 
nounce that  she  would  leave  that  night  for  New 
York  on  her  way  to  France. 

**  I  'm  going  as  a  correspondent,  of  course.  I 
never  dreamed  that  I  could  pull  it  off!  But  the 
United  Press  has  come  through  with  credentials. 
Girls,  when  I  get  over  there,  stories  or  no  stories, 
I  *m  going  to  do  something  to  help.  I'm  going  to 
find  a  place  where  I  '11  be  useful.'' 

"  Wait  till  to-morrow,"  said  Dodo,  quietly.  "  I  '11 
go  with  you  as  far  as  Washington."  Smiling  at 
their  stunned  faces,  she  explained,  still  unruffled: 
"  I  've  been  thinking  about  it  for  some  time.  My 
assistants  can  keep  things  going  here  till  I  can  ar- 
range to  put  in  some  one  else.  I  don't  know 
whether  this  country  's  going  into  the  war  or  not, 
but  if  it  does,  I  want  to  be  in  the  heart  of  things. 
I  'd  be  no  good  in  France,  but  I  can  do  something  in 
our  own  Department  of  Labor." 

Two  days  later  they  were  gone.  Helen's  own 
wistfulness  was  echoed  in  Willetta's  mournful  ex- 
clamation :  ''  Lucky  dogs !  What  would  n't  I 
give !     But  there  's  no  use.     The  East  is  no  place 

342 


DIVERGING  ROADS  343 

to  bring  up  children,  even  if  I  could  afford  to  take  a 
chance,  with  the  infant  to  think  about.  Oh,  well, 
you  girls  '11  come  back  twenty  years  from  now  to 
find  me  in  the  same  old  grind." 

"  Never  mind,  Willie  dear.  I  '11  be  right  here  the 
rest  of  my  life,  too,"  said  Helen,  and  for  a  moment 
Paul's  name  was  on  her  lips.  She  felt  that  speaking 
of  him  would  be  a  defense  against  her  own  illogical 
depression,  and  these  girls  would  understand.  It 
would  not  even  occur  to  them  that  legally  she  was 
still  another  man's  wife.  But  Willetta's  *'  Oh,  you! 
You  're  going  to  leave  all  the  rest  of  us  a  million 
miles  behind !  "  silenced  her. 

"  None  of  us  have  developed  the  way  you  have  in 
this  one  year,"  said  Willetta.  "  If  you  knew  what 
I  hear  everywhere  about  your  work !  "  Though  she 
knew  in  her  heart  that  she  would  never  be  a  great 
writer,  praise  for  her  work  always  gave  Helen  a 
throb  of  deep  delight. 

Two  weeks  later  she  sat  in  Mr.  Hayden's  office 
listening  to  a  suggestion  that  left  her  breathless. 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  the  Orient?"  Mr.  Hay- 
den's eyes,  usually  faintly  humorous,  were  quite  seri- 
ous. "  There  's  a  big  field  there  right  now.  The  un- 
dercurrents in  Shanghai,  Japan's  place  in  the  war, 
the  developments  in  Mesopotamia  or  Russia.  France 
is  done  to  death  already.  Every  one 's  writing 
from  there.  But  the  East  is  still  almost  untouched. 
There  's  a  big  opportunity  there  for  some  one." 


344  DIVERGING  ROADS 

**  Do  you  think  I  could  handle  it?  " 

"Of  course  you  could.  It 's  a  matter  of  being 
on  the  ground  and  reporting.  All  it  needs  is  the 
ability  to  see  things  clearly  and  tell  them  graphically. 
You  have  that.  It  would  take  money,  of  course. 
I  don't  know  how  you  're  fixed  for  that.'* 

She  thought  quickly,  her  pulses  leaping. 

"  With  these  last  two  checks  —  and  I  have  a  little 
coming  in  from  deferred  land  commissions  —  I  'd 
have  not  quite  a  thousand  dollars." 

"  Hm  —  well,  it 's  not  much,  of  course.  It  would 
be  something  of  a  gamble.  If  you  want  to  try  it, 
we  '11  give  you  transportation  and  letters  and  take 
a  story  a  month.  And  I  don't  think  you  'd  have 
any  difficulty  finding  other  markets  in  the  East." 

For  a  moment  she  tried  to  consider  the  question 
coolly,  while  pictures  of  Chinese  pagodas,  paper- 
walled  houses  of  Japan,  Siberian  prairies,  raced  diz- 
zily before  her  eyes.  Then,  with  a  shock  of  self- 
accusation,  she  remembered. 

"  I  could  n't  go.     Other  arrangements." 

"Don't  decide  too  quickly.  Think  it  over. 
There  's  a  great  opportunity  there,  and  I  believe  you 
could  handle  it.  It  would  make  you,  as  a  magazine 
writer.  If  you  make  up  your  mmd  to  go,  let  me 
know  right  away  ?  There  's  a  boat  on  the  twentieth. 
If  you  sailed  on  that,  it  would  give  us  time  to  an- 
nounce the  series  for  the  winter,  when  our  renewals 
are  coming  in." 


DIVERGING  ROADS  345 

*'  I  '11  think  about  it,"  she  promised.  "  But  I  'm 
quite  sure  I  can't  go.'* 

She  walked  quickly  down  the  windy  street  toward 
Market.  The  whirling  dust-eddies  over  the  cobbles, 
the  blown  scraps  of  paper,  the  flapping  of  her  skirts, 
seemed  part  of  the  miserable  confusion  in  her  own 
mind. 

How  could  she  have  forgotten  Paul  even  for  a 
moment?  She  had  been  heartless,  head-strong, 
foolish  to  stay  on  in  San  Francisco,  trifling  so  with 
the  most  precious  thing  in  her  life.  Paul  had  been 
superhumanly  patient  and  kind  and  unselfish  to  let 
her  do  it.  She  had  never  loved  him  more  deeply 
than  at  that  moment  when  with  a  dim  sense  of  flee- 
ing to  him  for  refuge  she  hurried  toward  a  telephone. 
Her  voice  trembled  unmanageably  when  at  last  his 
came  thin  and  faint  across  the  wires.  She  had  to 
speak  twice  to  make  him  hear. 

"  Paul  ?  Oh,  Paul !  It 's  Helen.—  No,  nothing 's 
the  matter.  Only  —  I  want  to  see  you.  Listen  — 
I  want  to  get  away  —  Can  you  hear  me  ?  I  say,  I 
want  to  come  down  there  for  a  while.  Would  your 
mother  have  room  for  me  ?  —  Right  away.  I  could 
take  the  next  train. —  No,  nothing,  only  I  want  to 
see  you."  The  joy  in  his  voice  hurt  her.  "  Why, 
don't  you  know  I  've  always  wanted  that  ?  You 
dear !  —  To-morrow  morning,  then. —  I  '11  be  glad, 
too, —  so  glad!  Of  course. — Truly,  honest  and 
true. —  Foolish !  —  Good-by  —  till  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

AT  the  end  of  a  long,  warm  summer  day  Helen 
lay  in  a  hammock  swung  between  two  apricot- 
trees.  From  time  to  time,  with  a  light  push  of  a 
slippered  foot  on  the  grass,  she  set  the  hammock 
swaying,  and  above  her  head  the  pale,  translucent 
leaves  and  ruddy  fruit  shifted  into  new  patterns 
against  a  steel-gray  sky. 

The  mysterious,  erie  hush  of  twilight  was  upon 
her  spirit.  Murmuring  voices  came  vaguely 
through  it;  across  the  street  two  women  were  sit- 
ting on  the  porch  of  a  bungalow,  and  on  its  lawn  a 
little  girl  played  with  a  dog.  The  colors  of  their 
dresses,  of  the  dog's  tawny  fur,  of  geraniums 
against  brown  shingles,  were  sharp  and  vivid  in  the 
cold  light. 

"  Mother  seems  to  be  staying  quite  a  while  at  Mrs. 
Chester's,"  said  Paul.  He  moved  slightly  in  the 
wicker  chair,  dislodging  the  ashes  from  his  cigar 
with  a  tap  of  his  finger,  and  she  felt  his  caressing 
eyes  upon  her.  She  did  not  turn  her  head,  saying 
nothing,  holding  to  the  quietness  within  her  as  one 
clings  to  a  happy  dream  when  something  threatens 

346 


DIVERGING  ROADS  347 

sleep.  A  puff  of  smoke  drifted  between  her  and  the 
leaves. 

"  It  is  pleasant  outdoors,  this  time  of  day,"  he 
persisted  after  a  moment.  Her  low  murmur,  hardly 
audible,  left  him  unsatisfied. 

"  Well,  did  you  have  a  good  time  this  afternoon?  " 
His  voice  was  brisker  now,  full  of  affectionate  in- 
terest. She  felt  his  demand  for  her  response  as  if 
he  had  been  tugging  at  her  with  his  hands. 

"  Pretty  good.     Oh,  yes,  a  very  good  time." 

**  What  did  you  do  ?  "  She  might  have  said, 
"  Please  let  me  alone.  Let 's  be  quiet."  But  Paul 
would  be  worried,  hurt;  he  would  not  understand; 
he  would  ask  questions.  She  turned  a  bright  face 
to  him. 

"  Oh,  your  mother  and  I  went  down  town,  and 
then  we  came  home,  and  Mrs.  Lamson  came  in." 

"  She  's  a  fine  little  woman,  Mrs.  Lamson." 

^*  Yes  ?  Oh,  I  suppose  so.  I  don't  care  much  for 
her." 

"  You  will.  You  '11  like  her  when  you  know  her 
better."  The  definiteness  of  his  tone  left  her  no 
reply.  She  felt  that  it  was  proper  to  like  Mrs.  Lam- 
son, that  he  expected  her  to  like  Mrs.  Lamson,  that 
she  must  like  Mrs.  Lamson.  A  flash  of  foolish, 
little-girl  anger  rose  in  her ;  she  would  have  liked  to 
stamp  her  foot  and  howl  that  she  would  not  like  Mrs. 
Lamson.     The  absurdity  of  it  made  her  smile. 

"  What  are  you  smihng  at,  dear?  " 


348  DIVERGING  ROADS 

She  sat  up,  setting  the  hammock  swinging. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Let 's  go  somewhere,"  she 
said  restlessly.     "  Let 's  take  a  long  walk." 

"  All  right."  He  was  eager  to  please  her.  **  I  '11 
tell  you  something  better  than  that.  I  '11  get  the 
car,  and  we  '11  ride  down  to  Merced  and  get  a  sun- 
dae. Run  put  on  your  coat.  You  '11  need  it,  with 
that  thin  dress." 

His  pride  in  the  new  car  was  deep  and  boyish. 
It  was  quite  the  most  costly,  luxurious  car  in  town ; 
it  was  at  once  the  symbol  of  his  commanding  place 
in  the  community,  and  a  toy  to  be  endlessly  examined 
and  discussed.  She  would  not  think  of  telling  him 
that  at  the  moment  she  would  rather  walk  than  ride 
in  it.  Like  an  obedient  child  she  went  for  her 
coat. 

The  house  was  dim  and  quiet.  She  closed  the 
door  of  her  room  behind  her  with  a  little  quick 
gesture,  and  stood  for  a  moment  with  her  back 
against  it.  She  thought  that  it  would  be  pleasant  to 
stay  there.  Then  she  thought  of  a  long,  silent  walk 
under  the  stars,  all  alone,  quiet,  in  the  darkness. 
Then  she  realized  quite  clearly  that  she  did  not  like 
Mrs.  Lamson,  and  she  thought  of  the  reasons  why 
that  amiable,  empty-headed  little  woman  bored  her. 
At  that  moment  the  automobile-horn  squawked. 
Paul  was  waiting.  Hastily  she  seized  her  coat  and 
ran  out  to  the  curb. 

When  the  purring  machine  turned  into  the  bril- 


DIVERGING  ROADS  349 

liantly  lighted  business  district  and  the  arched  sign, 
"  WELCOME  TO  RIPLEY/'  twinkled  upon  them, 
tawdry  against  the  pale  sky,  she  felt  that  she  could 
not  bear  to  go  to  Merced.  "  Let 's  just  run  up  the 
boulevard,  where  it 's  cool  and  quiet,  away  from 
people,"  she  said  coaxingly. 

"  Well,  if  you  want  to."  The  car  ran  smoothly 
up  the  long  gray  highway  hedged  with  ragged 
eucalyptus  trees.  Between  their  gaunt  trunks  she 
caught  glimpses  of  level  alfalfa  fields,  and  whiffs  of 
sun-warmed  perfume  swept  across  her  face  with  the 
rushing  air.  In  the  brimming  irrigation  canals, 
shimmering  like  silver  mirrors  across  the  green 
fields,  bright-colored  caps  bobbed  and  white  arms 
splashed.  Beside  her  Paul  talked  with  enthusiasm 
of  the  car. 

"  Is  n't  she  a  beauty  ?  She  'd  make  eighty  miles 
easy  if  I  wanted  to  let  her  out.  And  see  how  flex- 
ible!    Watch,  now." 

"Yes,  dear.  Wonderful!"  She  was  not  ac- 
customed to  being  with  people  all  day,  that  was  the 
trouble.  Those  hours  of  making  conversation  with 
women  who  did  not  interest  her  seemed  to  have 
drained  her  of  some  vital  force.  When  she  had 
her  own  house  she  could  be  alone  as  much  as  she 
liked.  Poor  boy,  he  had  been  working  all  day; 
of  course  he  wanted  her  companionship  now. 
"  You  must  let  me  take  it  out  some  day  soon,  will 
you?" 


350  DIVERGING  ROADS 

"  Why,  it 's  a  pretty  big  car,  Helen.  I  'd  rather 
you  'd  let  me  drive  it." 

She  laughed. 

"  All  right,  piggy-wig,  keep  your  old  car !  Some 
day  I  '11  get  a  little  Blix  roadster  and  show  yow  how 
I  drive!" 

She  was  astonished  at  the  shadow  that  crossed 
his  face.     His  smile  was  a  bit  forced. 

"  I  only  meant  it  would  be  pretty  heavy  for 
a  woman  to  handle.  Of  course  you  can  drive  it  if 
you  want  to." 

They  ran  past  the  gateway  of  Ripley  Farmland 
Acres,  and  gazing  at  the  little  town,  the  thriving 
farms,  and  the  twinkling  lights  scattered  over  the 
land  that  had  been  a  desolate  plain,  she  forgot  his 
words  in  a  thrill  of  pride.  She  had  helped  build 
these  homes.  When  he  spoke  again  she  groped 
blindly  for  his  allusion. 

'*  I  don't  think  you  realize,  Helen.  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  say  things  like  that." 

'^Like  what?" 

"  About  the  roadster.  I  wish  you  would  say  *  we  * 
sometimes.  Last  night  at  the  minister's  you  said, 
*  I  think  I  '11  buy  a  little  farm  and  see  what  I  can 
do  with  apricots.'  I  know  you  did  n't  realize  how 
funny  it  sounded.     It  sort  of  hurts,  you  know." 

**  Oh,  my  dear !  "  Her  cry  of  pain,  her  words 
of  miserable  apology,  made  even  more  clear  to  her 
the  chasm  between  them.     How  could  she  apologize 


DIVERGING  ROADS  351 

for  this,  a  thing  she  had  done  without  knowing  she 
was  doing  it?  Gray  desolation  choked  her  Hke  a 
fog, 

"All  right.  It's  all  right.  I  know  you  didn't 
mean  to,"  he  said  cheerfully.  He  took  one  hand 
from  the  wheel  to  put  an  arm  around  her  shoulders. 
"  Never  mind.  You  '11  learn."  His  tone  confi- 
dently took  possession  of  her,  and  in  a  heartsicken- 
ing  flash  she  saw  his  hope  of  making  her  what  he 
wanted  his  wife  to  be.  She  felt  his  hand  upon 
her  tastes,  her  thoughts,  her  self,  trying  to  reshape 
them  to  his  ideal  of  her.  "  You  suit  me,  sweetheart. 
I  know  what  you  are,  my  wonderful  girl!  " 

Her  heart  stopped,  and  she  felt  that  her  lips  were 
cold  under  his  forgiving  kiss.  He  talked  happily 
while  they  swept  on  through  the  gathering  darkness, 
and  she  responded  in  tones  that  sounded  strange  to 
her.  Mysterious  darkness  covered  the  wide  level 
land,  farm-house  windows  glowed  warmly  yellow 
through  it,  and  a  great  moon,  rising  slowly  over 
the  far  hills,  flooded  the  sky  with  pale  light  and 
put  out  the  stars.  At  last  they  rode  into  Ripley, 
past  the  piles  of  raw  lumber  and  stone  that  were 
to  be  their  bungalow,  and  down  the  quiet  street. 
The  wheels  crunched  the  gravel  of  the  driveway. 
Paul's  warm  hand  clasped  hers,  and  she  stumbled 
from  the  running-board  into  his  arms.  His  lips 
were  close  against  his  cheek. 

"Love  me,  sweetheart?    Tell  me.     It's  been  a 


352  DIVERGING  ROADS 

long,  long  time  since  you  said  it."  She  stood  rigid, 
voiceless.     "Please?" 

In  a  passion  of  pity  and  wild  pain  she  held  him 
close,  lifting  her  face  to  his  kiss  in  the  darkness. 
She  felt  that  her  heart  was  breaking. 

"  You  do,"  he  said  in  deep  content.  "  My  dear, 
my  dear !  " 

When  she  could  reach  her  room  she  turned  on 
the  full  glare  of  the  electric  lights  and  went  softly 
to  the  mirror.  She  stood  for  a  long  time,  her  hands 
tight  against  her  breast,  looking  into  the  eyes  that 
stared  back  at  her.  "  He  does  n't  love  you,"  she 
said  to  them.  "  He  does  n't  want  you.  It 's  some 
one  else  he  wants  —  the  girl  you  used  to  be.  O 
Paul,  how  can  I  hurt  him  so!  You'll  hurt  him 
more  cruelly  if  you  marry  him.  You  can't  be  what 
he  wants.  You  can't.  You  're  some  one  else. 
You  could  n't  stand  it.  You  can't  make  yourself 
over.  After  all  these  years.  O  Paul,  my  dear,  my 
dear,  I  did  n't  mean  to  hurt  you !  " 

Some  hours  later  she  remembered  that  a  boat 
sailed  for  the  Orient  on  the  twentieth.  She  would 
have  to  act  quickly,  and  it  was  good  that  there  was 
so  much  to  do. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

EARLY  on  the  morning  of  the  nineteenth  she 
climbed  the  steps  to  the  Httle  brown  house  on 
Russian  Hill.  She  had  traveled  all  night  from 
Masonville,  awake  in  her  berth,  and  she  was  very 
tired.  She  was  so  tired  that  it  seemed  impossible  to 
feel  any  more  emotion,  and  she  looked  indifferently 
at  the  sunny,  redwood-paneled  room  so  full  of  mem- 
ories. A  score  of  disconnected  thoughts  worried 
her  mind;  her  mother's  tearful  face,  the  telegram 
to  Washington  for  her  passports,  the  steamer-trunk 
she  must  buy,  Mabel  looking  at  her  enviously  over 
the  baby's  head. 

Brushing  a  hand  across  her  blurry  eyes,  she  sat 
down  at  her  desk.  She  must  write  to  Paul.  She 
must  tell  him  that  she  was  going  away;  make  him 
understand  that  their  smiling  farewell  at  the  Ripley 
station  was  her  good-by.  She  must  try  .to  show 
him  that  it  was  best,  so  that  he  would  not  hold  her 
memory  too  long. 

When  she  had  finished,  she  folded  the  sheet  care- 
fully, slipped  it  into  its  envelope,  and  sealed  the 
flap.  It  was  done.  She  felt  that  she  had  torn 
away  a  part  of  herself,  leaving  a  bleeding  empti- 

353 


354  DIVERGING  ROADS 

ness.  Her  brain,  wise  with  experience  of  suffering, 
told  her  that  the  wound  would  heal,  would  even  in 
time  be  forgotten,  but  her  wisdom  did  not  dull  the 
pain. 

A  thousand  memories  rushed  upon  her,  torturing, 
unbearable.  She  rose,  trying  to  push  them  from 
her,  reaching  in  agony  for  the  anodyne  of  work. 
Her  trunks  must  be  packed;  there  were  shelves  of 
books  to  give  away;  she  must  telephone  the  tailor 
and  the  expressman.  A  horde  of  such  details 
stretched  saving  hands  to  her,  and  a  self-control 
strengthened  by  long  use  took  her  through  them, 
with  her  chin  up  and  a  smile  on  her  lips. 

The  luncheon  table  had  never  seen  her  gayer, 
amid  the  excited  congratulations  of  the  girls,  and 
she  rushed  through  an  afternoon  of  shopping  to 
meet  them  all  for  tea,  and  to  spend  a  last  intimate, 
warm,  half -tearful  evening  with  them  around  the 
fire. 

"  The  old  crowd 's  breaking  up,"  they  said. 
"  Marian  in  France,  and  Dodo  in  Washington,  and 
now  Helen  's  going.  Nothing 's  going  to  be  the 
same  any  more." 

"  Nothing  ever  is,"  she  answered  soberly.  "  We 
can't  keep  anything  in  the  world,  no  matter  how 
good  it  is.  And  has  n't  it  been  good  —  all  this ! 
The  way  we  Ve  cared  for  each  other,  and  our  happy 
times  together,  and  all  you  've  meant  to  me  —  I 
can't  tell  you.     I  don't  think  there  's  anything  in  the 


DIVERGING  ROADS  355 

world  more  beautiful  than  the  friendship  of  women. 
It 's  been  the  happiest  year  of  my  whole  life." 

"  It 's  been  lovely,  all  of  it,"  Sara  murmured, 
curled  in  a  heap  of  cushions  on  the  floor  by  Helen's 
low  chair.  She  laid  her  long,  beautiful  artist's  hand 
on  Helen's.     "  It 's  terrible  to  see  things  end." 

The  fire  settled  together  with  a  soft,  snuggling 
sound.  In  the  dusk  Willetta's  face  was  dimly  white, 
and  the  little  spark  of  red  on  Anne's  cigarette-tip 
glowed  and  faded.  They  sat  about  the  dying  fire  in 
a  last  communion  of  understanding  that  seemed 
threatened  by  the  darkness  around  them.  Already 
the  room  had  taken  on  something  of  the  forlorn- 
ness  of  all  abandoned  places,  a  coldness  and  strange- 
ness shared  in  Helen's  mind  by  the  lands  to  which 
she  was  going,  the  unknown  days  before  her. 

The  dull  ache  at  her  heart  became  pain  at  a 
sudden  memory  of  Paul's  face.  She  straightened 
in  her  chair,  closing  her  fingers  more  warmly 
around  Sara's. 

"  I  'm  sure  of  one  thing,"  she  said  earnestly. 
"It  hurts  to  —  to  let  go  of  anything  beautiful. 
But  something  will  come  to  take  its  place,  some- 
thing different,  of  course,  but  better.  The  future  's 
always  better  than  we  can  possibly  think  it  will  be. 
We  ought  to  know  that  —  really  know  it.  We 
ought  to  be  so  sure  of  it  that  we  'd  let  go  of  things 
more  easily,  strike  out  toward  the  next  thing.  Like 
swimming,  you  know.     Confidently.     We  ought  to 


356  DIVERGING  ROADS 

live  confidently.  Because  whatever 's  ahead,  it  *s 
going  to  be  better  than  we  've  had.  I  tell  you, 
girls,  I  know  it  is." 

She  arrived  breathlessly  at  the  docks  next  day, 
rushing  down  at  the  last  minute  in  a  taxicab  jammed 
with  bundles.  Sara  and  Willetta  were  part  of  the 
mad  whirl  of  the  morning,  dashing  with  her  to 
straighten  out  a  last  unexpected  difficulty  with  the 
passports,  hounding  a  delaying  express  company, 
telephoning  finally  for  a  taxicab  to  carry  the  trunks 
to  the  docks.  Willetta  had  gone  with  it  to  see  that 
the  trunks  got  aboard;  Sara  had  made  coffee  and 
toast  and  pressed  them  upon  Helen  while  she  w^as 
dressing.  The  telephone  had  rung  every  mo- 
ment. 

It  was  ringing  again  when  Helen,  clutching  her 
bag,  her  purse,  her  gloves,  slammed  the  door  of  the 
little  house  and  ran  down  the  stairs  of  Jones  Street 
to  the  waiting  cab.  Bumping  over  the  cobbles,  with 
Sara  beside  her,  and  the  bags,  the  hat-box,  an  arm- 
ful of  roses,  the  shawl-strapped  steamer-rug,  jostled 
in  confusion  about  her,  she  looked  through  the 
plate-glass  panes  at  San  Francisco's  hilly  streets, 
Chinatown's  colorful  vegetable  markets  and  glitter- 
ing shops,  Grant  Avenue's  suave  buildings,  and 
felt  nothing  but  a  sense  of  unreality.  Incredible 
that  these  would  still  be  here  when  she  was  gone! 
Incredible  that  she  was  going,  actually  going! 


DIVERGING  ROADS  357 

"You  have  the  keys,  Helen  dear?"  Sara's  lips 
quivered. 

"  Yes  —  I  think  so."  She  dug  them  from  her 
purse.  "  Give  them  to  Willetta  for  me,  will  you  ? 
I  'm  afraid  I  '11  forget.  I  hope  she  '11  be  happy  in 
the  little  house."  For  the  hundredth  time  she 
glanced  at  her  wrist-watch.  "If  you  hear  who  it 
was  that  was  telephoning,  explain  to  them  that  I 
simply  had  to  run  or  I  'd  miss  the  boat,  won't  you 
dear?  And  you  '11  write."  How  inadequate,  these 
commonplace  little  remarks!  Yet  what  else  could 
one  say? 

The  taxicab  stopped  in  the  throng  of  automobiles 
about  the  wharves,  the  man  must  be  paid,  bags  and 
steamer-rug  and  flowers  pulled  out.  Willetta  was 
there,  laughing  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  The  little 
Chinese  woman  was  there  and  Anne  and  Mr.  Hay- 
den.  She  was  surrounded,  laughing,  shaking  hands, 
saying  something,  anything. 

They  were  at  the  gang-plank,  across  it,  on  the 
deck  of  the  steamer  now,  in  the  packed  crowd.  All 
around  them  were  tears  and  laughter,  kisses,  fare- 
wells. She  was  shaking  hands  again.  Miss  Pet- 
erson, the  stenographer  from  the  "  Post,"  was  press- 
ing a  white  package  into  her  hands;  two  little  girls 
from  Telegraph  Hill  had  come  down  to  bring  a 
hot,  wilted  bunch  of  weed-flowers;  Mary  O'Brien, 
from  the  settlement  house  she  had  written  about, 
and  others,  acquaintances  she  had  hardly  remem- 


358  DIVERGING  ROADS 

bered,  men  with  whom  she  had  danced  at  the 
Press  Club— ^'  Oh,  Mr.  Clark!  How  good  of  you 
to  come  — !  Good-by !  —  Good-by !  "  "  Hope  you 
have  a  fine  trip."  **  Oh,  thank  you !  —  Thank 
you !  —  Good-by !  " 

The  whistle  blew ;  the  crowd  eddied  about  her.  A 
last  hug  from  Sara,  tremulous  kisses,  Willetta's 
damp  cheek  pressed  against  hers,  a  sob  in  her 
throat.  The  last  visitors  were  being  hurried  from 
the  ship.  Some  one  threw  a  bright  paper  ribbon, 
curling  downward  to  the  wharf.  Another  and  an- 
other, scores  of  them,  hundreds,  sped  through  the 
sunshine,  interlacing,  caught  by  the  crowd  below, 
while  others  rose  in  long  curves  to  the  deck,  till  the 
steamer  was  bound  to  the  shore  by  their  rainbow  col- 
ors. 

Another  whistle.  Slowly,  with  a  faint  quivering 
of  its  great  hulk,  the  ship  awoke,  became  a  living 
thing  beneath  her  feet.  The  futile,  bright  strands 
parted,  one  by  one,  curled,  fell  into  the  water. 
The  crowd  below  was  a  blur  of  white  faces.  Brush- 
ing her  hand  across  her  eyes,  she  found  her  own 
little  group,  Willetta,  Anne,  Sara,  close  together, 
waving  handkerchiefs.  Across  the  widening  strip 
of  water  she  waved  her  roses,  waved  and  waved 
them  till  the  docks  were  blots  of  gray  and  she  could 
no  longer  see  the  answering  flutter  of  white.  The 
ship  was  slowly  turning  in  the  stream,  heading  out 
through  the  Golden  Gate. 


DIVERGING  ROADS  359 

When  the  last  sight  of  the  dear  gray  city  was  lost, 
when  the  Ferry  Tower,  the  high  cliffs  of  Telegraph, 
the  castle-like  height  of  Russian  Hill,  the  Presidio, 
Cliff  House,  the  beach,  had  sunk  into  grayness  on 
the  horizon,  she  went  down  to  her  stateroom.  It 
was  piled  with  gifts,  long  striped  boxes  that  held 
flowers,  baskets  of  fruit,  square  silver-corded  pack- 
ages that  spoke  of  bonbons,  others  large  and  small. 
She  had  not  known  that  so  many  people  cared. 

A  blind  impulse  had  brought  her  into  this  little 
place  where  she  could  lock  a  door  behind  her  and 
be  alone.  She  had  felt  that  she  could  give  way 
there  to  all  the  tears  she  had  not  shed.  But  she 
felt  only  a  sense  of  peace.  She  laughed  a  little, 
wiping  away  the  few  tears  that  did  brim  over  her 
lashes,  thinking  of  the  girls  who  still  loved  her  and 
would  love  her  wherever  she  was. 

Deliberately  she  thought  of  Paul,  and  already  the 
deep  hurt  was  gone.  He  would  be  reading  her  let- 
ter now ;  she  felt  a  pang  of  sharp  pain  because  she 
had  made  him  suffer.  But  he  would  forget  her 
now.  In  time  there  would  be  another  girl,  such  a 
girl  as  she  had  been, —  the  girl  he  had  loved  and  that 
no  longer  lived  in  her. 

"  That 's  why  it  hurt  me  so !  "  she  thought,  with 
sudden  illumination.  "  Not  because  I  wanted  him, 
but  because  I  wanted  to  be  all  that  I  had  been,  and 
to  have  all  that  I  have  missed  and  never  will  have. 
Marriage  and  home  and  children.     No,  I  can't  ever 


36o  DIVERGING  ROADS 

fit  into  it  now.     But  —  there's  all  the  world,  all 
the  world,  outside,  waiting  for  me !  " 
Her  thoughts  turned  forward  to  it. 


THE  END 


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